(Cont. from previous blog- Mol-lee...Tomorrow...)
I stayed late that night preparing for the next day’s adventure. I sorted flashcards, gathered A-4 paper, found old lessons, and scrambled ideas until my body shuttered with anxious dread. Teaching on stage didn’t bother me as much as not knowing what to expect and not being prepared did…
I arrived at work early. Turning on the water heater for some much needed caffeine, I went to my desk to make sure that I had everything and to go over my lessons one more time. At about 8:15 (good thing I was early…pssh) I watched as Principal Lin, looking more like Princess Fiona from the Disney movie, Shrek, (in Org form) than usual dressed in a blue, sparkly, blazer-shirt and skirt with her hair all done in curls. Oy, dancing around the principal, herded the kids to a small, white min-van.
“Are they really going to stuff awl 26 students in that van?” My co-worker Carol asked aloud as we stood watching from the safety of the shaded door, “And you too?” she turned to me bemused with the whole ordeal.
“Do you think? Will they fit? She said two vans…” I retaliated peering over the brim of my light brown, instant coffee.
“They sure have done it before, awlright. Wouldn’t surprise me.” She said as she turned toward her desk.
“Are you okay?” My co-worker Paul sympathetically oozed as he came in. “You are going to do fine.”
“Yeah,” Carol chimed in, “and just think, we can all have a nice laugh when it’s over with. No problem a’tawl.”
“Wow, good one. Have fun with that.” Kate, the only one my age grimaced to me, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Principal Lin called through the crack in the door. Damn, I thought maybe she would forget me, maybe get too wrapped up and they would all take off. Guess not. I swallowed the last swig of candy-flavored coffee, sighed and plowed out the door into the sunshine.
“Teacha Mol-lee!” the kids cried as I approached the hustle and bustle of loading them on the bus. And Carol was right, there was only one. But where was Em? Em better freakin’ be going…
“Khun Mol-lee” I overheard as Principal Lin talked with Dr. She motioned for me to move into the passenger seat. I was watching as the children stuffed themselves into the van: some standing, some sitting, some crammed into corners on the floor. It was amazing how all the little bodies fit in. Even Oy fit, lop-sided, in the back. As directed I sat shotgun to the good Dr., Grandfather to two of my children, but more importantly Head of The Ministry of Education. As we were getting ready to leave, Cartoon, a smiley little girl in my class, was lifted up and plopped in my lap. The door was shut and she sat giggling, wedged into the front seat with me. Great.
The drive was long and blaring kid shows played on the flip-down DVD player as we whipped into Phuket Town. My stomach churned and my mind raced with what to expect. I replayed the planned lesson in my head and talked with Cartoon as we passed things she recognized. “Flower,” she said pointing her little finger at passing roadside orchids.
“Very good, Cartoon. Flower. Purple flower.” I encouraged.
“Sun.” She said squinting up at the sky and shielding her eyes.
“Yes. Hot sun.” I replied fanning my face as the rest of the children squealed and yelped in the back.
After about twenty minutes of driving back the way I drove in to work that morning, past the center of Phuket Town and through the misplaced rotary, we came upon a road lined with men in black uniforms. The uniforms identified themselves by their tell-tale white gun sashes and badges as being officers, hundreds of them it seemed. Among the police were security guards, several farang (foreigners), some Thai’s obviously working at the event smocked and carrying pots, and some well dressed Thai’s donned in His Majesty The King’s representative yellow polo shirt topped with a classic black blazer. Apparently these were not your ordinary Thai’s.
My nails dug into the handle of the door and white knuckled, my mouth dropped as I tried to access the situation. Holy shit. What is this? Police? Seriously? Maybe it’ll be too busy an event and I will be forgotten, dismissed to a back corner. Oh God, it is here, we’re stopping.
We stopped across the street from a large, rectangular, dark, marble sign draped in rich, blue silk. Only the first six letters peaked out from the secretive fabric: AUSTRI. And I knew then that it hadn’t been Principal Lin’s flawed English that had thrown me off. It actually was the Austria Center, whatever that was. As my mind put the puzzle together another piece jammed itself jagged edged into my mind: she had said “grand opening”. Silk fabric, balloons, police, silk fabric covering the sign, security, tons of security, farang…oh shit.
My door swung open as Dr.-stone faced- suggested with his hands that I step out. I set Cartoon gently on the ground and took a deep breath: Here we go. There was nothing I could do. I’m here, they expect me to go on, and there is obviously something big happening. The best I could do was go through it, give it the old college try, wow the crowd and be done with it. Three hours, okay. Dr. pulled back the side door and before it had glided to a stop my kids were spilling out onto the sidewalk. The Dr. started to lead my kids around the back of the van and into the street, and on-coming traffic, while signaling to the officers. Cars slammed on their breaks as the sound of whistles assaulted the air. With students grasping my hands, fingers, skirt, bag and any other extremity they could, I crossed, or more likely shuffled, across the street and onto the walkway of this white-washed center.
It erupted out of the still raw earth. It’s marble and concrete walls cut away at sharp angles and revealed open-air seating and connected buildings rounded as if they were towers. With no one to follow, my students began wandering aimlessly around. I called to them to gather and wrestled them into a small group by the wall and out of peoples’ way…for the most part. After awkwardly standing with a group of 26 wiggling children for several year-long minutes we were met by Em.
“Mol-lee. We go in here. You teach,” she coyly smiled to me and added in a sing-sing tease, “Ah you ready?”
“Em, what is this? I teach here? Where?” But before she could answer Dr. commanded something in Thai to her and we began to follow him through large glass doors and into a building. It was as sterile as a hospital. The floor was immaculately polished and a white, spiral staircase climbed up the center of the room encased in glass, everything smelled free of dust. We removed our shoes by the door and lined them up toe-to-wall before entering any farther. A desk, much like a hotel reception desk, was along the left hand wall and several grey suited Thai’s nodded and smiled at us as we loudly clamored in. We trudged to a large, pastel padded, lima bean shaped pit with a column up the middle as a seating area to climb into. The second my kids saw it, it was a free for all. You might as well have just released them into the play palace at MacDonald’s for all they cared. All they knew was that here was a padded pit, poles to climb, and ledges to jump off of in a new place. And that was exactly what they did. Screaming, they body slammed one another off the mats while hooting like monkeys in triumph and running off to find another victim. Others were screaming as their friends, pretending to be monsters, growling at their kicking feet. They spilled out of the lima bean and onto the polished floor turning the corner into what must have been, The Library. Crisp white shelves held lined books in rainbow colored order and same size categories with fancy book ends. Freshly bought puppets were displayed on shelves, their store bought smiles still gleaming.
“Bang! Satang! Ton! Over here. We are not in the books. Put the books away!” I ordered the wild wolf-children as I helplessly looked at the zoo that had been unleashed. My Thai teachers were nowhere to be found and here I am with Dr. Ministry of Education, a rambunctious group of six year olds, and random wanderers speculating at my uncontrollable class. With the realization of Oy and Em missing, I became a little overwhelmed but assumed that they would be back any minute. They couldn’t have possibly left me for long…here…where no one speaks English and the kids are in a new spot paying no intention to my Charlie Brown English wafting ineffectively through their ears. With Dr. Standing at the end of the room, I tried to herd my children into the bean pit. If I could at least contain them in one area I would be okay, right? As the howls echoed through the building my children managed to hurtle over or around me and into the books. Several began to climb the honeycomb structure that stretched from ceiling to floor with new books clamped between their rotten stubs of teeth. Others chased each other and jumped X-Game style into the pit. It had felt like ages, the perspiration beading on my back and under my hairline. They were only getting louder and more destructive. I imagined the books being tossed on the floor, red mixing with (gasp) blue books, the stuffing of a chicken puppet spilling from its insides, my children drooling from the honeycomb rafters above onto their victim below.
“Okay, Banmaireab! KG2! Over here!” I clapped to them in my most authoritative tone. Miraculously most of them came over. The others I called by name and got them to join. Now, that I had them all together, what was I going to do? How was I going to contain them? I didn’t want to start teaching. I didn’t have any of my materials. Where were Oy and Em? I searched my surroundings for an idea…oh course, “Yok,” one of my best behaved and smart students, “could you please go and pick out one book to read with the class.” She got up and as others went to follow I clucked at them to sit back down, “Is your name Yok? Yok is picking out the book thank you very much. Please sit and wait.” With the good Dr. looming behind us I tried to look in control of my class.
Yok handed me the spongy book, “Thank you, Yok. Okay. Ooooooh, nice book. Is this a little book or a big book?” I asked knowing that I had to buy time and this four page thin baby book wasn’t about to cash in.
“Little!” a chorus of shouts came.
“Good. What color is the book?”
“Pink!” they replied.
“Good,” I nodded in approval to them, “What is on the book? What is the picture of?” as I continued with random questions people began to trickle in: a couple from outside, some business men from upstairs, a family with a little boy. I could see the Dr. on the ledge of the bean watching me, his face carved in the same stern look. Was I doing well? Is he happy? How can you read this guy? As I thought of these things I realized that my students were being incredibly attentive and articulate. I thought, screw it, I’m going to teach my kids. I’m just going to do my best and do what I know the kids like to do and can do well.
After three books Teelak approached me, “Teacha Mol-lee, bathroom.”
“You have to use the bathroom? Can you wait?” He nodded to me as he clutched the plaid shorts around his groin. Oh, God. How am I going to take them all to the bathroom? Where is the bathroom? Where the hell are Em and Oy?
“Teacha’ Mol-lee,” Noon, a little dark eyed girl in my class came to me, “bathroom, please.” She said, one leg twined around the other. As I looked around the room I noticed most children were clutching their plaid uniforms and squirming with discomfort.
“Do you all have to go?” I asked in disbelief. Their little heads nodded in unison. Ooooooookay, “Let’s go. Boys and girls.” They pushed and shoved their way into a straight line, “Let’s go.” After being denied use of the bathroom on the bottom floor I lead my students up the spiral staircase to the second and had each go in and use the facilities. As we finished up we were joined by Em and Oy who had apparently gone to decorate a board to represent the school.
It was 9:30 and as we came back to the lima bean I was ready to teach. Otherwise, I thought to myself, they are just going to run rampant and embarrass me, the school, and everyone involved. Let’s get this show on the road. With some reprimands and rearranging of seating they finally settled in. Sitting in a tiny, red, plastic chair on top of the four foot wide stage I began my lesson. We went through the usual days of the week and today, the date, and the weather by playing my normal jesting misspelled word game: “What day is it today?”
“Friday.”
Okay, Friday. Very good.” White board marker touches the board and I slowly form the letter ‘M’ until they correct me and chant out the correct days’ spelling. A small crowd was gathering as we continued with our morning routine and then onto the English lesson with phonetics. We reviewed vocab and danced to a phonetics CD that goes along with my curriculum. They love that stuff… “I see a noodle named Nyle/ He likes to nap for a while/he wears a scarf around his neck/he’s neat and right in style.” (Phonetic sound /n/ Letter Nn represented by your pal and mine, Nyle Noodle. Oh, yeah.) People love to see kids dance and be cute, so I was just feeding it to them. The cute part is easy for my lot; the dancing is a little silly though. But that’s what the people want.
I was cranking through. The white board was covered with letters and vocabulary cards and hands were raised to answer questions. I glanced up towards the crowd for the first time and noticed the Principal, Dr., Some black suit jacketed men from the Oborn Jorn, a few well to do smiling farang, and a bunch of onlookers, maybe forty. I knew I had to beef it up. Make the kids impressive. Use what they know to make the crowd ‘ooh and aw’. We went over vocabulary flashcards, “It’s a butterfly. Letter B. Sound /b/.” the children answered. As we ended the review I began to prep for a game as Oy approached me, “Mol-lee. Blake.”
“What?” I asked sorting flashcards in my dewy palms.
“Blake…you know?”
“Blake? What. What do you mean?” I asked half stumbling over my materials as my rhythm had been broken. She looked around for help.
“The student’s. Blake. Eat.” She mimicked eating.
“Oh. Sorry, sorry, yes. Break.” I apologized. The stress and pressure had dulled my usually sensitive ear from Thai mis-sayings and pronunciation. “Of course. Okay. No problem.”
“You come.” She encouraged as I put my things in a pile and followed the line out.
We sat at long tables on hard wooden benches and the students got a little roll filled with shredded pork (I like to call them meat buns), and an orange flavored milk in a bag with straw. As the students sat chowing their meat buns, a commotion began behind them near the silk covered sign. Two hundred or so people were standing around it and as I inched closer out of curiosity I was startled by the thunderous bang of a bass drum. A full marching band in light blue garb piped with red and large white plumes atop stiff white caps began to explosively play to the mingling crowd. The silk was pulled off to reveal the sign and released ribbon flapped back in freedom. Grand opening, indeed.
Some of my students covered their ears while others banged out the song on the table with sticky hands. I stood along the wall behind them smiling proudly and encouraging good behavior. As the band changed tunes, the crowd shifted like the tides and rolled our way. Like a tsunami it rolled towards my kids. The people just kept coming and coming and coming. We were flooded with onlookers. My poor, innocent, unknowing children. Video cameras, ten or so of them, circled my bread-mouthed kids while the head of the Oborn Jorn talked with them while posing for photo-ops, and rich white Austrians pinched their cheeks and tussled their hair. The Principal ordered something in Thai to Oy and the kids were up and lined in no time.
“Mol-lee, you teach. Now!” Oy called to me over the excitement. Let’s rock. I Stood at the head of the line and lead my children inside, weaving around the towering adults. We sat back in the bean pit and tried to continue. It was jam-packed, wall-to-wall people. I could hardly hear myself call to them, let alone expect them to follow directions in English.
“Maybe, you do dance again.” Oy suggested.
“Okay, but there is music on.” I told her as the elevator music whined in my ear by the big screen television I had previously turned off. We’ll try it.
“Oy turned the music on and up as loud as it could go and the students began to move in a sloppy, insecure, slurred dance. This isn’t going to work.
“Oy, forget it. They cannot hear the music.”
“Oh, I doh-no.”
Thinking on my feet, I had them all sit down and split down the middle.
We started playing an impromptu game of flashcard tic-tac-toe where the students one by one had to come up, pick a card, turn it over to reveal the picture, name the object, tell me the letter it began with and the phonetic sound to gain an ‘X’ or an ‘O’. The volume in the room was incredible and people sat on the ledges of the pit to watch and cheer on the children. We sang songs between games: Itsy Bitsy Spider, Twinkle, Twinkle, etc. because I knew the people would eat it up…as they did.
Plucking a flashcard from the white board to redirect my students’ attention, I came face to face with a television camera, the large black circle reflecting a skewed image of myself staring back at me. Surprised by the proximity of the lens, I nervously smiled and tried to remember what I was doing before I was a deer in headlights. News crews snapped shots of my children and people talked to them while I played the game. An older woman with frizzled hair and grey sweater jacket leaned on the ledge of the pit on the stage where I taught and engaged me, mid-lesson, in conversation, “Vear ah you frum?”
“Oh, I am from U.S.A. America.” I answered sweetly. You have to say both U.S.A. and America here because people either know one or the other. If you say America, they may have no idea.
“And da children? How vold?” her dry lips smacked together.
“They are mostly five and six.” I failed to mention the Ministry of Education’s three year old spoiled granddaughter in my class.
“Ah. And how long you stay ear?” she asked, her cheek bones defined ghoulishly by the dark blush.
“I’ve been here for about four months now.”
We continued until she got her fill with information adding, “I am frum Austria.” Yeah, no kidding lady. Are you happy you spent your money on this now that you saw my little kiddos? I continued with my lesson.
The crowd thinned out again and I switched to Mathematics. Hopping down from the wooden stage and onto the now open floor, I put a number line on the ground. Oy and Em taped the numbers, as I reviewed the concept “Count up!” I chanted as I put my right hand into the air, “Count down!” I continued with the opposite arm. My voice echoed through the chamber of the spiral staircase. I could feel movement behind me as I tried to focus on the children lined on the edge of the Easter-egg colored pads. One by one my students came up to demonstrate their mathematical ability while I congratulated them with big, shiny, stickers. This is ridiculous, I thought as my bare feet swept the now warm floor. As we danced on the number line, two dark images hovered to my left.
“Excuse, me. Can I talk with you?” A scrappy, mustachioed man approached me. In his hand he held a microphone as a beautiful Thai woman stood beside him smiling. The camera man rested the heavy instrument on his knee as we chatted. “When did you hear about this opening? We didn’t know you were going to be here.”
I stared at his red shirt- lie. “I heard a lot about it yesterday and more as we got ready to come.” When actually all I wanted to say was that I heard about it yesterday before I was planning on leaving work to go home and actually realized what it was, oh, ten minutes ago. It wasn’t technically a lie. My students rustled in the background. The light from sunlight bounced off the white walls and showered the room in a hot pool of light.
“Have you had a chance to check out the facilities? What do you think?” He asked with his skinny forehead gleaming from the light that fell across from us, his right hand firmly on his hip while the other mopped his brow.
The thought of my children crawling all over the shelves and half-nelsoning each other came to mind. The bathroom trip upstairs came to mind. Walking to snack came to mind. “I’ve become familiar with the library and we read a few of the books. It seems like a wonderful resource and a great facility for the community. It is also architecturally lovely.” I answered. Was this really happening? This was why I was here. Get the kids on camera. Plug the school. We talked a bit more about things I knew nothing about but pretended to have an inkling (which I didn’t). Finally he prepped the beautiful Thai and I was asked the same questions by her, only recorded this time as my children sang the ABC’s (ah, Em and Oy, very smart) in the background. Charmed, the reporter asked me if I could get the students to say ‘I love the new library! Buh-bye’ to the camera as a closer for the segment. But of course, I’d only be fired if I didn’t. After three takes they wrapped up and left the building. The strange room became quiet again.
I turned back to my students, ready to continue with stickers. Em approached me smiling sweetly and holding my arm, “Mol-lee. Finish teaching. Now, we go. Eat lunch.” And it was over like that. I was on camera. The school was mentioned. Mission complete. Lesson over. Who cares if the students learned anything today? Who cares if that set us three days behind in curriculum? Publicity.
We returned to the long tables and wooden benches as they spooned cold rice, chicken, soup, and soy sauce prepared that morning and driven from school into little divided lunch trays for the kids. I watched as they ate and awkwardly smiled at onlookers and hoverers. Thai people came up and asked the children questions, taking their spoons and mixing the food on the plate for them. A hefty farang man, stocky in his walk, approached me. He had a full navy blue suit with collared pinstriped shirt and red tie. He wiped his moist face with a faded white handkerchief as I told him about our school and he told me about business-architecture. He is the boss of the Austrian building group that built the facility, “Thai architecture, we just built it.” He emphasized as he went on about the politics of building in Thailand.
The children finished their lunches and dove into ice-cream pops while we got ready to leave. My stomach rumbled as I stood with my children. I was so exhausted I could fall over. As I stood entertaining my children, trying to keep them behaved, I heard loud gasps, squeals, yelps, and shouts. A woman holding a bunch of thirty or so multi-colored balloons rounded the corner. The rainbow colors glowed in the sunlight and she walked almost slow motion toward the drab and dusty lunchroom. The dirty faces lit up and reached toward the multicolored fantasy with grubby hands. The dry grass blew up a small tuft of weeds as she brought the balloons to me.
“Balloons! Letter B! Sound /b/!” my students cried as the silken white strings were handed over to me. Two white Austrians stood smiling at the side of us: he in dark business suit and parted hair, her, twisting her long-linked gold necklace around her finger that matched her nautical attire suitable for a developing country. He squeezed her around her red striped waist at my students’ delight and they gazed satisfied into each others’ eyes.
Only after you read the TWO parts of the blog
view it yourself @:
http://www.thaisnews.com/news_detail.php?newsid=197996
click on Special report: Austria – Phuket Community Cente opened
Monday, December 18, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Mol-lee, Tomorrow...You Teach...Okay?
I was sitting at my desk, diligently working away on the next week’s lesson plans when Em, my assistant Thai teacher, slid open the shaded door to the office and peeked inside, “Mol-lee.” I saw her lips form my name as she stepped inside. Removing my earphones, I gave her a smile, “Yes?”
“Mol-lee, you go talk. Principal Lin.” She said as she came to my desk fanning herself with a piece of paper.
“What? Principal Lin? She wants me? Why?” I asked in disbelief, shuffling the papers on my desk and trying to put them in logical order so that I could continue with them without losing my spot.
“Yeeees, Mol-lee. Go talk. Ah, Principal Lin need to speak wit you.” She cooed slouched with her hip on my desk.
“Oooooh,” I toyed with my English co-workers as I pushed myself away from my desk. Their bodies all turned towards me and eyes watched as I followed Em to the door. With my mind racing with lesson plans, I followed her outside as my coworkers chuckled at me through the sliding glass door: math activities, do we continue with phonetic /n/ or should I break it up and add in some verb enforcement? I was going to continue with the concept of more, but is it too fast? What could Principal Lin want? Did I do something wrong?
Shuffling along the stone walkway towards the main office, Em began to try to explain, “Tomorrow you no teach student. Teach other school. Far away," she said with a wave of the hand.
“Far away? What? I don’t teach students tomorrow? No teaching?” I little bubble of joy lifted inside me and erupted as a smirk on my lips as I entertained the thought of a day off.
“Yeeees, Yeeeees, you teach. But not at school, not in classroom. We go….uh,” she thought aloud in Thai as we ascended the stairs and came to the office door, “I doh-no. Principal Lin.” She smiled to me as my face squinted in confusion and we walked through the door.
“Ah, Mol-lee,” Principal Lin called from her desk. Her large body filled the width of the desk and her little chubby arms sat on top like two stubby sausages stuffed into a bright, coral, linen blazer. “Sit, parease.” She instructed with a flop of her arm to a small metal chair in front of her desk.
“Thank you.” I answered still unsure of what exactly was going on and a little hesitant. I looked back at Em for encouragement and she smiled and nodded to me.
“Mol-lee, tomorrow, ah…KG2 (my classroom Kindergarten 2) go to Siria Centah. You know Siria Centah?” she asked, her white powdered face looking at me expectantly.
“No, I’m sorry I don’t. Where?” I asked leaning in towards her, hoping that if I get closer, hear better, that I could understand better.
“Uh, you, Em, Oy (my other Thai assistant) Me, Dr. and KG2 all go, go, go,” her hands waved around the air in front of her like two sparring birds flapping wildly about. By this time all I understood was that myself, my two Thai teachers, The Principal, and the Doctor, being the Head of the Ministry of Education (gasp) were all going somewhere tomorrow. But where?
“Okay, we all go…”
She interrupted, “I have two car to, uh,” she moved her clutched hands side to side while swaying her body.
“Driving?” I asked. I have always been darn good at charades.
“Mmmm, yeees. We go to The Centah. You know? Uh, Aus-tri-a Centah. Ah, li-berry. Books, you know? Li-berry? Yes. You go with children and look, look, look, around,” Her head moving about to imaginary books and shelves.
“Okay. So tomorrow Me, Em, Oy KG2 go and look in a center? Like a field trip. We go and just look around?” I asked in disbelief but with a small hope. The Ministry of Education’s Grandchildren are my students; maybe this was a special perk? “I don’t teach tomorrow? We go and look?”
“No. Tomorrow you teach. You teach KG2.” She smiled triumphantly.
Wait a cotton-picking minute- what? “So I teach about the Austria Center? I don’t know Austria Center? What is it? What do I teach?” My breathing became a little unsteady, but as I pictured it in my mind I calmed. What could it be? A field trip, some plaques on the wall in English I read to the children, they get a little history, we learn some Austrian stuff and badda-bing, everyone’s happy…right?
“Mol-lee, you go and teach, I doh-no maybe some picture, maybe…story, maybe…I doh-no. You teach, teachteach, and people watching,”
“People are watching? Who? Watching me teach?” I asked in disbelief. Oh, this was getting good.
“Yeeees,” she smiled, her thick hands clasped in front of her bosom which rested on the top of her desk. “Some people…you know…some children no have mother or father, very poor…”
“Orphans?”
“Yes, okay. They give money to the children no mother, and make li-berry. Grand opening. You, me, Oy, Em go and open. First time.” -Holy shitballs…what?- “Okay, Mol-lee. You teach for me.” She asked with her sweetest smile plastered on in red-hot lipstick.
“Okay, we go to Austria Center. I teach, maybe draw a picture of what we see, and people watch (?) and then we come back to school…when?” I struggled to understand exactly what the heck I was in for.
“We drive back to school 12 o’clock. Okay?”
“A field trip? We are going on a field trip. Come back at 12 0’clock?” I half asked half answered.
“Okay, I think okay. Thank you Mol-lee. You come to school tomorrow morning, what time?” She asked.
“I come here at 8 o’clock.”
“I think tomorrow you come in 7:45. Okay. Thank you Mol-lee.”
“Okay.” I shrugged as I got up and looked at Em. Her face would tell me what was really going on.
As we descended the stairs I turned to Em, “What are we doing?”
“We go to Austria Center and you teach,” her hands straightened horizontally in front of her, “people come watch ‘oh, cute, cute the children’ and you teachteachteach.”
“What do I teach? I don’t know Austria Center?”
“No, Mol-lee, you teach, same same.”
“I teach what I would teach tomorrow? We take workbooks?”
“No, I think maybe game, maybe sing-song, story…”
“Wait, Em, people are going to be watching me teach, what? On a stage?”
“Yeeees. Many people come and watch, looking around and watching teach.”
Oh, God. I finally got it. I understood. How could I be so stupid? It isn’t a field trip, it’s a publicity thing. I have to cart my kids into a building and try to teach them while rich Farang and god-knows-who circle us like cute-thirsty vultures going in for the cheek pinch. Oh, no. And three hours? Three hours of it? How am I going to teach three hours with people cruising around us? What the hell am I going to teach? Think Molly, think.
I slid back the door to the English office and my co-workers all turned my way. Their eyes widened as I stood, shocked in the doorway, “Oh, no Molly. What does she want you to do?”
“Mol-lee, you go talk. Principal Lin.” She said as she came to my desk fanning herself with a piece of paper.
“What? Principal Lin? She wants me? Why?” I asked in disbelief, shuffling the papers on my desk and trying to put them in logical order so that I could continue with them without losing my spot.
“Yeeees, Mol-lee. Go talk. Ah, Principal Lin need to speak wit you.” She cooed slouched with her hip on my desk.
“Oooooh,” I toyed with my English co-workers as I pushed myself away from my desk. Their bodies all turned towards me and eyes watched as I followed Em to the door. With my mind racing with lesson plans, I followed her outside as my coworkers chuckled at me through the sliding glass door: math activities, do we continue with phonetic /n/ or should I break it up and add in some verb enforcement? I was going to continue with the concept of more, but is it too fast? What could Principal Lin want? Did I do something wrong?
Shuffling along the stone walkway towards the main office, Em began to try to explain, “Tomorrow you no teach student. Teach other school. Far away," she said with a wave of the hand.
“Far away? What? I don’t teach students tomorrow? No teaching?” I little bubble of joy lifted inside me and erupted as a smirk on my lips as I entertained the thought of a day off.
“Yeeees, Yeeeees, you teach. But not at school, not in classroom. We go….uh,” she thought aloud in Thai as we ascended the stairs and came to the office door, “I doh-no. Principal Lin.” She smiled to me as my face squinted in confusion and we walked through the door.
“Ah, Mol-lee,” Principal Lin called from her desk. Her large body filled the width of the desk and her little chubby arms sat on top like two stubby sausages stuffed into a bright, coral, linen blazer. “Sit, parease.” She instructed with a flop of her arm to a small metal chair in front of her desk.
“Thank you.” I answered still unsure of what exactly was going on and a little hesitant. I looked back at Em for encouragement and she smiled and nodded to me.
“Mol-lee, tomorrow, ah…KG2 (my classroom Kindergarten 2) go to Siria Centah. You know Siria Centah?” she asked, her white powdered face looking at me expectantly.
“No, I’m sorry I don’t. Where?” I asked leaning in towards her, hoping that if I get closer, hear better, that I could understand better.
“Uh, you, Em, Oy (my other Thai assistant) Me, Dr. and KG2 all go, go, go,” her hands waved around the air in front of her like two sparring birds flapping wildly about. By this time all I understood was that myself, my two Thai teachers, The Principal, and the Doctor, being the Head of the Ministry of Education (gasp) were all going somewhere tomorrow. But where?
“Okay, we all go…”
She interrupted, “I have two car to, uh,” she moved her clutched hands side to side while swaying her body.
“Driving?” I asked. I have always been darn good at charades.
“Mmmm, yeees. We go to The Centah. You know? Uh, Aus-tri-a Centah. Ah, li-berry. Books, you know? Li-berry? Yes. You go with children and look, look, look, around,” Her head moving about to imaginary books and shelves.
“Okay. So tomorrow Me, Em, Oy KG2 go and look in a center? Like a field trip. We go and just look around?” I asked in disbelief but with a small hope. The Ministry of Education’s Grandchildren are my students; maybe this was a special perk? “I don’t teach tomorrow? We go and look?”
“No. Tomorrow you teach. You teach KG2.” She smiled triumphantly.
Wait a cotton-picking minute- what? “So I teach about the Austria Center? I don’t know Austria Center? What is it? What do I teach?” My breathing became a little unsteady, but as I pictured it in my mind I calmed. What could it be? A field trip, some plaques on the wall in English I read to the children, they get a little history, we learn some Austrian stuff and badda-bing, everyone’s happy…right?
“Mol-lee, you go and teach, I doh-no maybe some picture, maybe…story, maybe…I doh-no. You teach, teachteach, and people watching,”
“People are watching? Who? Watching me teach?” I asked in disbelief. Oh, this was getting good.
“Yeeees,” she smiled, her thick hands clasped in front of her bosom which rested on the top of her desk. “Some people…you know…some children no have mother or father, very poor…”
“Orphans?”
“Yes, okay. They give money to the children no mother, and make li-berry. Grand opening. You, me, Oy, Em go and open. First time.” -Holy shitballs…what?- “Okay, Mol-lee. You teach for me.” She asked with her sweetest smile plastered on in red-hot lipstick.
“Okay, we go to Austria Center. I teach, maybe draw a picture of what we see, and people watch (?) and then we come back to school…when?” I struggled to understand exactly what the heck I was in for.
“We drive back to school 12 o’clock. Okay?”
“A field trip? We are going on a field trip. Come back at 12 0’clock?” I half asked half answered.
“Okay, I think okay. Thank you Mol-lee. You come to school tomorrow morning, what time?” She asked.
“I come here at 8 o’clock.”
“I think tomorrow you come in 7:45. Okay. Thank you Mol-lee.”
“Okay.” I shrugged as I got up and looked at Em. Her face would tell me what was really going on.
As we descended the stairs I turned to Em, “What are we doing?”
“We go to Austria Center and you teach,” her hands straightened horizontally in front of her, “people come watch ‘oh, cute, cute the children’ and you teachteachteach.”
“What do I teach? I don’t know Austria Center?”
“No, Mol-lee, you teach, same same.”
“I teach what I would teach tomorrow? We take workbooks?”
“No, I think maybe game, maybe sing-song, story…”
“Wait, Em, people are going to be watching me teach, what? On a stage?”
“Yeeees. Many people come and watch, looking around and watching teach.”
Oh, God. I finally got it. I understood. How could I be so stupid? It isn’t a field trip, it’s a publicity thing. I have to cart my kids into a building and try to teach them while rich Farang and god-knows-who circle us like cute-thirsty vultures going in for the cheek pinch. Oh, no. And three hours? Three hours of it? How am I going to teach three hours with people cruising around us? What the hell am I going to teach? Think Molly, think.
I slid back the door to the English office and my co-workers all turned my way. Their eyes widened as I stood, shocked in the doorway, “Oh, no Molly. What does she want you to do?”
Friday, November 24, 2006
Ground Control
What was that loud cracking sound? Why was I on the ground? My leg hurts. I'm on the ground. I'm on...the...ground? Cars. Get up. cars. Erik, where's Erik? Yellow light. Get up. My head, helmet. The bike is by my feet. I'm on the ground. Where's Erik? Get up. My hands, where are my hands? The ground? get up.
I scrambled to my feet, the wet pavement making impressions on the palms of my hands like scales. I looked around. Cars, bikes, we're going to get hit. Erik. Erik is talking to...other people? People...on the ground? That's when it hit me, we had been in an accident.
It was a good dinner to unwind from the first day of work. We both experienced stressful situations and unplanned occurances seemed to have crept into both of our days. We had waited out the rain by means of a hot fudge sundae and a hot cocoa, the same kind my Aunt Kay used to make. Just sipping it had brought me back to cast iron gas stoves with the smell of the gas wafting with real chocolate warming up on the burner. The rain had calmed and I held close to Erik, the warmth of his body warding off the goose bumps that seemed destined to take over. We cruised through town talking of lesson plans we still had to make. As we approached the road to our house, Erik insisted I wave to the woman on the corner at her food stand. He had eaten there the other day and had made friends with the owner/cook and the patrons. As I turned to wave we came to the branch of our road.
“Did she see you?” Erik asked as he stopped at the T to our road placing his feet firmly on the ground. The blinker shone a bright yellow, illuminating the wall to our right and reflecting off the damp leaves of the trees and bushes.
“No, but a lady sitting there did. She waved to me. She looked really nice and excited to see us.” I told him as I looked down our road.
We waited for the oncoming traffic to pass, and then started to make our turn. The next thing I knew I was on the ground, my helmet had just slammed onto the pavement and my neck jerked with the shock. Yellow blinking lights shone off the wet pavement and the neon green bike was lying at my knees. I jumped up to get out of the road as I saw Erik go towards the others. Who were they? How many were there? What the hell just happened? The bike lay on the ground, its front wheel touching the side of another. My eye was immediately drawn to a small child, was he hurt? Then I saw a woman and a young man, maybe a teenager. Wait, the woman is holding her stomach, God, she’s pregnant. My knee started to sting and I quickly checked as I heard Erik ask them if they were okay. A truck that was behind us stopped and blocked the traffic. It seemed like there were lots of people stopped. All 3 of the others weren’t wearing helmets. God, had my head hit?
“Molly, move the bike.” Erik instructed. Dazed, I lifted the bike up and moved it to the side, the blinker still going.
“You okay? Okay?” Erik asked the couple standing at their bike. The little boy was in the road so I told him to come over and I checked him, “Are you okay?” I asked giving him the thumbs up. Scanning him, there was no blood.
“What happened?” The lady from behind us in the truck asked.
“We were here,” Erik said stepping into the road, “I was stopped and my blinker was on. We were turning. We live right there.” He gestured down the road.
“Okay. Okay. I saw. He come on side?” she asked.
“No, on this side. I turn,” he made the action of steering the bike, “and he hit me. Here. Like this.” He made a T bone collision with his hands. “Are you okay?” He asked the people again as they stood huddled together.
The lady spoke to them in Thai and they nodded, moving towards their bike.
I sighed as they took off. If she hadn’t been there to communicate, god knows. What would happen? Thai police? It wasn’t our fault. My knee stung and my hand throbbed as I climbed back on the bike. We wheeled toward our house, the neighbors out in an ogling pack.
“You okay?” They asked.
“We’re okay.” We answered, “Shaken.” One of the neighbors walked to us, checking my hands and asking if we were okay and what happened. We looked over the bike and made our way inside, recapping what had happened. Gosh, good thing we were wearing a helmet. Helmet 2 points. Blinker none. I just wanted to get inside.
I scrambled to my feet, the wet pavement making impressions on the palms of my hands like scales. I looked around. Cars, bikes, we're going to get hit. Erik. Erik is talking to...other people? People...on the ground? That's when it hit me, we had been in an accident.
It was a good dinner to unwind from the first day of work. We both experienced stressful situations and unplanned occurances seemed to have crept into both of our days. We had waited out the rain by means of a hot fudge sundae and a hot cocoa, the same kind my Aunt Kay used to make. Just sipping it had brought me back to cast iron gas stoves with the smell of the gas wafting with real chocolate warming up on the burner. The rain had calmed and I held close to Erik, the warmth of his body warding off the goose bumps that seemed destined to take over. We cruised through town talking of lesson plans we still had to make. As we approached the road to our house, Erik insisted I wave to the woman on the corner at her food stand. He had eaten there the other day and had made friends with the owner/cook and the patrons. As I turned to wave we came to the branch of our road.
“Did she see you?” Erik asked as he stopped at the T to our road placing his feet firmly on the ground. The blinker shone a bright yellow, illuminating the wall to our right and reflecting off the damp leaves of the trees and bushes.
“No, but a lady sitting there did. She waved to me. She looked really nice and excited to see us.” I told him as I looked down our road.
We waited for the oncoming traffic to pass, and then started to make our turn. The next thing I knew I was on the ground, my helmet had just slammed onto the pavement and my neck jerked with the shock. Yellow blinking lights shone off the wet pavement and the neon green bike was lying at my knees. I jumped up to get out of the road as I saw Erik go towards the others. Who were they? How many were there? What the hell just happened? The bike lay on the ground, its front wheel touching the side of another. My eye was immediately drawn to a small child, was he hurt? Then I saw a woman and a young man, maybe a teenager. Wait, the woman is holding her stomach, God, she’s pregnant. My knee started to sting and I quickly checked as I heard Erik ask them if they were okay. A truck that was behind us stopped and blocked the traffic. It seemed like there were lots of people stopped. All 3 of the others weren’t wearing helmets. God, had my head hit?
“Molly, move the bike.” Erik instructed. Dazed, I lifted the bike up and moved it to the side, the blinker still going.
“You okay? Okay?” Erik asked the couple standing at their bike. The little boy was in the road so I told him to come over and I checked him, “Are you okay?” I asked giving him the thumbs up. Scanning him, there was no blood.
“What happened?” The lady from behind us in the truck asked.
“We were here,” Erik said stepping into the road, “I was stopped and my blinker was on. We were turning. We live right there.” He gestured down the road.
“Okay. Okay. I saw. He come on side?” she asked.
“No, on this side. I turn,” he made the action of steering the bike, “and he hit me. Here. Like this.” He made a T bone collision with his hands. “Are you okay?” He asked the people again as they stood huddled together.
The lady spoke to them in Thai and they nodded, moving towards their bike.
I sighed as they took off. If she hadn’t been there to communicate, god knows. What would happen? Thai police? It wasn’t our fault. My knee stung and my hand throbbed as I climbed back on the bike. We wheeled toward our house, the neighbors out in an ogling pack.
“You okay?” They asked.
“We’re okay.” We answered, “Shaken.” One of the neighbors walked to us, checking my hands and asking if we were okay and what happened. We looked over the bike and made our way inside, recapping what had happened. Gosh, good thing we were wearing a helmet. Helmet 2 points. Blinker none. I just wanted to get inside.
Update to: What a day...
Like wearing a cloak woven with threads of worry, doubt, despair, sadness, grief, and misery we felt heavy as she told us the news, "He, she, uh, is dead." Our bodies, crushed by the news, made for weak legs and lead hearts.
She saw us from up the street as we mounted the motorbike on our way out. Dressed in her police woman uniform, obviously an officer of caliber with her many decorations gracing her chest and shoulders, she walked towards us.
We both had a sinking feeling all week. Driving past the house each day, we looked. For the first few days, we looked and saw emptiness. But as the week continued, we noticed that there were several cars at the house. That's what worried us.
As she approached I removed by helmet, walking towards her, "how is everything?"
She told us the sad news, her eyebrows furrowed.
"I think it okay you come. Saturday, uh...you come. I think okay. Twelve, twelve o' clock, ka. she, uh he, dead." Her hands palm up to the sky.
"We are so sorry. Are you okay?" we asked her, my hand to my heart.
"Thank you." she said as she held my face in her hands kissing me on the cheek.
As she walked away, the weight grew and we fell into an introspective silence.
It was like hitting a wall.
"We did everything we could." Erik said as we took off.
"I hope so. I just think, should I have done something different?" I ask into the darkening sky pregnant with storm.
"I don't know, Molly. I don't know."
She saw us from up the street as we mounted the motorbike on our way out. Dressed in her police woman uniform, obviously an officer of caliber with her many decorations gracing her chest and shoulders, she walked towards us.
We both had a sinking feeling all week. Driving past the house each day, we looked. For the first few days, we looked and saw emptiness. But as the week continued, we noticed that there were several cars at the house. That's what worried us.
As she approached I removed by helmet, walking towards her, "how is everything?"
She told us the sad news, her eyebrows furrowed.
"I think it okay you come. Saturday, uh...you come. I think okay. Twelve, twelve o' clock, ka. she, uh he, dead." Her hands palm up to the sky.
"We are so sorry. Are you okay?" we asked her, my hand to my heart.
"Thank you." she said as she held my face in her hands kissing me on the cheek.
As she walked away, the weight grew and we fell into an introspective silence.
It was like hitting a wall.
"We did everything we could." Erik said as we took off.
"I hope so. I just think, should I have done something different?" I ask into the darkening sky pregnant with storm.
"I don't know, Molly. I don't know."
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
What a Day...and Evening.
“Oh, uh… my huhband…” she stuttered in a panicked search for English words.
I rose from my chair to see what was happening. Erik was already at the screen door, smiling at first, but now his face twisted in confusion and worry. He opened the door, stepping outside and onto the warm veranda as she scurried toward the gate of our house.
“…My huhband. Uh, he fall. Help. You help me. Oh…” She spoke in a rushed urgency. It took a second to sink in.
“Your husband?” Erik asked.
“Is he hurt? You need help?” I added.
“You help me, please. Help.” She tugged at us with begging eyes. Her face, in a panicked desperation, was framed by her hair still pulled into a loose chiffon from work.
“Okay, okay. We’re coming.” Erik said as he followed her across and up the street to her house.
“Come on!” He shouted over his shoulder as I stood, shocked, for a millisecond. Dazed and trying to grasp what exactly was happening, I froze momentarily in thought. Shook by his call, I dashed into the house and grabbed my phone. Running barefoot up the road, my teacher skirt flipping in the wake of my dread, I reached the house. The woman was frantically opening up the backdoor of her car and pulling things out. She was wild with flustered immediacy. Erik stepped in to help and she grabbed my wrist, “You come. You help me. My huhband. Help.” I had no idea what I was stepping my bare feet into. We flew through the doors of the house in a surreal out-of-body experience and stopped as we entered the kitchen, heavy with earthy smells. I paused when I saw her husband lying on the floor. His body was sprawled, belly up, behind the pale blue kitchen table. With only a white cotton undershirt on, his lower half was exposed-- blue shorts tangled around his ankles. She quickly threw a dish rag onto his exposed genitals as she reached for me to come closer. Time froze. The sound of my breath echoing in my ear as I looked for his chest to rise in time. I automatically began to assess the situation, scanning the area for any piece of furniture or evidence that could whisper what had happened into my ear. My God, he was foaming at the mouth. His body, slightly shaking, had lost control and bodily fluids surrounded him as he gyrated uncontrollably. His shirt was soaked in urine, sweat and saliva. Feces trailed down his leg. I focused on the foam frothing in a yellow discharge from his mouth. It had air bubbles; he was breathing.
Erik came back into the room and just as time had stopped, it begun to speed up; everything moving like lightning flashes. I stood there clutching my phone as the wife huddled over the body. What was the number for 911 here? God damn it.
“You lift my huhband. Please.” She beseeched, her mind racing with fear.
“Okay, okay. We can lift.” I said as I approached the body of her husband. I came around the edge of the table to the crown of his head as Erik went to his midsection.
“Molly, get his head.”
“Alright, I got it.” I answered as Erik heaved the man’s fluid soaked body up and into his arms. My hands slipped on his slime covered forearms and I cradled his soggy head in my hands trying to stabilize his neck. The wife whimpered as she followed us out the house with the occasional “Okay, okay.” As she tried to gather herself.
“Step.” I instructed Erik as we came out of the house and into the car-park, the man’s head still in my hands with my arm bracing his shoulders. Erik breathed heavily as he carried the brunt of the limp body. We reached the backseat door of the car and in a split second decision I climb backward into the seat, his shoulders and head resting on my chest and upper arms. The leather gripped my moist skin and I tore across the seat, forcing my skin to move with me as I pulled his body in with mine. Erik pushed him up and into the car, placing him delicately across the seat. As I reached the other door, my sense of smell kicked in and the car became a pungent tomb. I popped open the other backseat just as the wife came with a pillow. I jumped out and she quickly substituted it under his head as I walked around to Erik.
“You, come with me. Please. You come.” She called hurrying into the house, her cell phone to her ear.
“She wants us to go with her.” I looked at Erik in awe and disbelief at what was happening. Should we?
“Go with her? To the hospital?” He asked as he tried to pull the man’s shorts up a little higher to save his dignity.
“I don’t know. I guess.” I climbed into the passenger seat to assist. The woman was still milling around her house in a panic looking for things and grabbing last minute needs. Like an unexpecting husband at the moment of labor, she rushed with lost cause.
“Here, just close the door.” Realizing that it wasn’t going to work I picked his legs up and held them into the car, “shut the door.”
“You got him?”
“Yeah, go.”
He shut the door and the wife came out. “Okay, okay. You come you come with me.” She said to us as she circled the car hemming and hawing, her hand to her forehead in despair.
“Umm. Okay.” I said as a million things raced through my mind, “Call ambulance?” I asked thinking that it would be better if she didn’t drive in this state of mind.
God, shouldn’t we call the ambulance? What the fuck’s the number? What the fuck’s the number. Oh, God, why don’t we have the number? Go with her? Is it safe? Should I go? Should I follow? No, someone should be with her. But what if she can’t drive right now? Wear my seatbelt. She needs someone. Should I go? Just go. I need to go with her.
“Do you want me to drive you to the hospital? I asked as she threw a pile of towels over her shoulder onto his exposed body.
“Nono. With me. I am a police woman in Pang nga. No problem. I am a police, please. You come wit me.” She floundered as she dug through her purse, “Where are my keys? Oy, my keys. Where are? Where are?” She yelped as she hustled back into the house to find her keys.
Erik pulled up on the motorbike, “Why don’t you call 9-1-1?” he asked.
“Because I don’t know the number!” I howled back at him.
“We’ll follow her?”
“Okayokayokayokay you comewithme.” She said as she pulled my arm with a nervous chuckle.
“No, she wants us to go with her.” I called to Erik in the road.
“With her?”
“With you? In the car?” I double checked.
“okayokayokayokay.mmmmm.” She answered.
Okay.” I said to her. “She wants me to go with her.”
As she locked the front door to her house I said, “I borrow your shoes.” And I slipped on a pair of red wedges.
Climbing into the car, unsure and scared but with Erik behind me, I was worried. God, was I worried.
“You come. Yeah. He okay?” She equally half asked to me and to herself.
I fastened my belt and turned to her husband. His belly rounded up to his chest and the foam at his mouth was gathering in a pool by his neck. His legs quivered and his right arm slightly shook. It was the first time I thought: seizure. My God, he’s having a seizure. I took one of the thrown rags and began to wipe his mouth so that the foam wouldn’t block his breathing. This was probably the last place I wanted to be, but she needed someone.
“He okay? He okay?” she cried, fumbling at the gear shifts.
“He’s okay. He’s okay. Breathing. Good.” I soothed as I watched his quaking body and gently wiped the spittle that oozed from his white crusted lips.
“I am police woman in Pang nga. I gone for one week. He, oh. Don’t know, don’t know. He okay?” “He’s okay.” I repeated as I watched his convulsions. Please, stay with me buddy, I pleaded to myself as I glanced out the rearview window at Erik pacing behind us. She turned down winding roads, passing cars as I attended to her husband wedged between the two front seats and rotated behind.
“Your husband okay behind?” She asked of Erik.
“Yes, he’s there. Don’t worry. It’s okay.”
Traffic jammed up at intersections as it was a busy time of day. Cars in Thailand usually find themselves bumper to bumper while motorbikes weave between the lanes. Erik scooted ahead yelling, “Hospital!” as we tried to maneuver through oncoming traffic.
He miraculously stopped all cars at some points and we cut through, only to find another clogged up motorway. My attention focused on the husband. He began to choke and chortle and without thinking, I unbuckled my belt and whipped around to adjust his head. I turned it to the side, draining out the pooled up saliva and lifting his head back on the pillow, but I quickly removed it as his tongue slipped back. Re-clearing his airway I propped his head with chin up and removed all the built up guck. Oh, god. Stay with us. You’re okay. You’re okay. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I coached as we wheeled through intersections. Trapped at a light, I could see the sweat roll down the wife as she began to get panicked and restless hitting the steering wheel with the heel of her hand.
“He’s okay. Okay.” I told her as my face screamed otherwise out the window to Erik. I stared at him, tears coming to my eyes. The husband was slipping, he began to quake more violently, and I didn’t know how much longer he would make it. Please get us there. Get us there. Be there. Be there. Erik whizzed ahead and got the attention of a traffic patrolman and the officer stopped traffic to let us through. We were close. If he could just hold on a little bit longer…
We were within spitting distance of Wichira Hospital when traffic became impassable. Erik tried to clear the way, but traffic had no idea of the severity of the situation. The wife panicked and took a turn.
“Wichira Hospital?! Right there!” I demanded.
“No, Mission, better. Thai Hopital.” She cried the sweat beading on her neck. I put my hand on her shoulder as I leaned over to the back seat, my other hand holding her husband’s mouth open and the tongue down. God, don’t be far, I begged.
We finally made it to the hospital after watching the red traffic light count down until it turned green, every second an eternity. When we reached the front door of the hospital, the EMTs came out and put him on a stretcher and whisked him inside. “You stay wit me?” She whined.
“Yes. Of course. We stay.” I told her, “no problem.”
“Thank you, thank you.” She called as she stumbled into the hospital to find her husband. “You stay.”
Erik met me inside in the waiting room. Sullen faces looked at the two farang that had entered with the hysterical Thai woman, both smelling like feces. Erik went to the washroom to clean his shorts while I sat in a blue, plastic, bowl chair watching the wife’s purse as she talked with doctors.
“My huhband. He go to Wichira Hopital. Seri-os conditon. I am police woman in Pang nga. Not home for one week. My huhband, oh.” She got up to check again.
She called her family from her cell phone and told us that they were going to meet her at the next hospital. The doctors and nurses got ready to transport the husband and I watched as they placed him onto the stretcher. All three of us walked to the ambulance and she stood confused and not knowing what to do.
“You go. I’ll drive your car to Wichira Hospital.” I told her. Hesitant at first, she gratefully went with her husband, “oh, thank you thank you.”
I pass Erik climbing on his bike as I stride to the car. It smells incredible and I try to put the windows down but only the back two obey. As I climb in I have to push the seat back to adjust to my legs and grip the shifter in my left hand- left hand- no problem. I pop the car into 1st as the ambulance whizzes past me and follow it into the street. Trying to find the blinkers, the windshield wipers swish on as I switch to the left lane. Erik whizzes past me and yells to turn on the blinkers. I would if I could find them. I quickly glance around and finally push on the hazards and turn off the wipers following the ambulance and honking my horn. Realizing that I don’t have to rush, I slow down and go carefully. Entering Wichira, Erik calls to me to park in a spot he had just seen someone pull out of. I reverse into it in one fluid motion. We enter the hospital and find ourselves surrounded by signage that is all in Thai with no idea where they could have gone.
We ask the front desk,” Do you know where the people on stretcher,” they stare blankly at us, “ambulance from Mission Hospital, just came in…” they continue to stare. “Uh, woman, man sick. Hospital came in here.” We mimic to them and they have no idea. “Okay, thank you. We tell them as we decide to venture on our own. We end up passing by a door just as the wife turns down the hall and she waves to us. Giving her back her keys, we ask about his condition.
“Can you stay wit huhband? I have to…uh, um…” she gestures signing and we tell her yes of course. A little while later he is wheeled out of Tomography and brought down to Emergency. We follow the four, white uniformed staff and stretcher and meet her on the way. She clutches my hand, “Now, you good friend. Good friend. Thank you.”
“No, problem, ka.” I tell her quietly, “You okay?” I ask
“Ka. Okay.” She answers while squeezing my fingers as we walk behind her husband’s stretcher. He is wheeled into a private room in the Emergency area and she tells me to sit. I do, as does Erik, and we wait. Her husband is on oxygen which a nurse is hand pumping into him as another holds an I.V. high into the air. We sit as she talks to the doctors and two people walk in and greet her. It is her brother and sister in law whom she called earlier. They have come to meet her. We introduce ourselves and they thank us. Now that they are there she is okay and we are thanked and told we can go. We leave with warm wishes, “Now, you good friend. I come to your house to visit you. I will come and tell you.” She tells us as she walks us to the doorway of the hospital.
“No problem. We hope he is okay. Good bye, ka.” We wai as we make our way to the motorbike. Climbing aboard, I look toward where we had departed. They wave as they turn to walk inside and we breathe a surprised sigh of relief with a tinge of worry as we wheel back toward home.
I rose from my chair to see what was happening. Erik was already at the screen door, smiling at first, but now his face twisted in confusion and worry. He opened the door, stepping outside and onto the warm veranda as she scurried toward the gate of our house.
“…My huhband. Uh, he fall. Help. You help me. Oh…” She spoke in a rushed urgency. It took a second to sink in.
“Your husband?” Erik asked.
“Is he hurt? You need help?” I added.
“You help me, please. Help.” She tugged at us with begging eyes. Her face, in a panicked desperation, was framed by her hair still pulled into a loose chiffon from work.
“Okay, okay. We’re coming.” Erik said as he followed her across and up the street to her house.
“Come on!” He shouted over his shoulder as I stood, shocked, for a millisecond. Dazed and trying to grasp what exactly was happening, I froze momentarily in thought. Shook by his call, I dashed into the house and grabbed my phone. Running barefoot up the road, my teacher skirt flipping in the wake of my dread, I reached the house. The woman was frantically opening up the backdoor of her car and pulling things out. She was wild with flustered immediacy. Erik stepped in to help and she grabbed my wrist, “You come. You help me. My huhband. Help.” I had no idea what I was stepping my bare feet into. We flew through the doors of the house in a surreal out-of-body experience and stopped as we entered the kitchen, heavy with earthy smells. I paused when I saw her husband lying on the floor. His body was sprawled, belly up, behind the pale blue kitchen table. With only a white cotton undershirt on, his lower half was exposed-- blue shorts tangled around his ankles. She quickly threw a dish rag onto his exposed genitals as she reached for me to come closer. Time froze. The sound of my breath echoing in my ear as I looked for his chest to rise in time. I automatically began to assess the situation, scanning the area for any piece of furniture or evidence that could whisper what had happened into my ear. My God, he was foaming at the mouth. His body, slightly shaking, had lost control and bodily fluids surrounded him as he gyrated uncontrollably. His shirt was soaked in urine, sweat and saliva. Feces trailed down his leg. I focused on the foam frothing in a yellow discharge from his mouth. It had air bubbles; he was breathing.
Erik came back into the room and just as time had stopped, it begun to speed up; everything moving like lightning flashes. I stood there clutching my phone as the wife huddled over the body. What was the number for 911 here? God damn it.
“You lift my huhband. Please.” She beseeched, her mind racing with fear.
“Okay, okay. We can lift.” I said as I approached the body of her husband. I came around the edge of the table to the crown of his head as Erik went to his midsection.
“Molly, get his head.”
“Alright, I got it.” I answered as Erik heaved the man’s fluid soaked body up and into his arms. My hands slipped on his slime covered forearms and I cradled his soggy head in my hands trying to stabilize his neck. The wife whimpered as she followed us out the house with the occasional “Okay, okay.” As she tried to gather herself.
“Step.” I instructed Erik as we came out of the house and into the car-park, the man’s head still in my hands with my arm bracing his shoulders. Erik breathed heavily as he carried the brunt of the limp body. We reached the backseat door of the car and in a split second decision I climb backward into the seat, his shoulders and head resting on my chest and upper arms. The leather gripped my moist skin and I tore across the seat, forcing my skin to move with me as I pulled his body in with mine. Erik pushed him up and into the car, placing him delicately across the seat. As I reached the other door, my sense of smell kicked in and the car became a pungent tomb. I popped open the other backseat just as the wife came with a pillow. I jumped out and she quickly substituted it under his head as I walked around to Erik.
“You, come with me. Please. You come.” She called hurrying into the house, her cell phone to her ear.
“She wants us to go with her.” I looked at Erik in awe and disbelief at what was happening. Should we?
“Go with her? To the hospital?” He asked as he tried to pull the man’s shorts up a little higher to save his dignity.
“I don’t know. I guess.” I climbed into the passenger seat to assist. The woman was still milling around her house in a panic looking for things and grabbing last minute needs. Like an unexpecting husband at the moment of labor, she rushed with lost cause.
“Here, just close the door.” Realizing that it wasn’t going to work I picked his legs up and held them into the car, “shut the door.”
“You got him?”
“Yeah, go.”
He shut the door and the wife came out. “Okay, okay. You come you come with me.” She said to us as she circled the car hemming and hawing, her hand to her forehead in despair.
“Umm. Okay.” I said as a million things raced through my mind, “Call ambulance?” I asked thinking that it would be better if she didn’t drive in this state of mind.
God, shouldn’t we call the ambulance? What the fuck’s the number? What the fuck’s the number. Oh, God, why don’t we have the number? Go with her? Is it safe? Should I go? Should I follow? No, someone should be with her. But what if she can’t drive right now? Wear my seatbelt. She needs someone. Should I go? Just go. I need to go with her.
“Do you want me to drive you to the hospital? I asked as she threw a pile of towels over her shoulder onto his exposed body.
“Nono. With me. I am a police woman in Pang nga. No problem. I am a police, please. You come wit me.” She floundered as she dug through her purse, “Where are my keys? Oy, my keys. Where are? Where are?” She yelped as she hustled back into the house to find her keys.
Erik pulled up on the motorbike, “Why don’t you call 9-1-1?” he asked.
“Because I don’t know the number!” I howled back at him.
“We’ll follow her?”
“Okayokayokayokay you comewithme.” She said as she pulled my arm with a nervous chuckle.
“No, she wants us to go with her.” I called to Erik in the road.
“With her?”
“With you? In the car?” I double checked.
“okayokayokayokay.mmmmm.” She answered.
Okay.” I said to her. “She wants me to go with her.”
As she locked the front door to her house I said, “I borrow your shoes.” And I slipped on a pair of red wedges.
Climbing into the car, unsure and scared but with Erik behind me, I was worried. God, was I worried.
“You come. Yeah. He okay?” She equally half asked to me and to herself.
I fastened my belt and turned to her husband. His belly rounded up to his chest and the foam at his mouth was gathering in a pool by his neck. His legs quivered and his right arm slightly shook. It was the first time I thought: seizure. My God, he’s having a seizure. I took one of the thrown rags and began to wipe his mouth so that the foam wouldn’t block his breathing. This was probably the last place I wanted to be, but she needed someone.
“He okay? He okay?” she cried, fumbling at the gear shifts.
“He’s okay. He’s okay. Breathing. Good.” I soothed as I watched his quaking body and gently wiped the spittle that oozed from his white crusted lips.
“I am police woman in Pang nga. I gone for one week. He, oh. Don’t know, don’t know. He okay?” “He’s okay.” I repeated as I watched his convulsions. Please, stay with me buddy, I pleaded to myself as I glanced out the rearview window at Erik pacing behind us. She turned down winding roads, passing cars as I attended to her husband wedged between the two front seats and rotated behind.
“Your husband okay behind?” She asked of Erik.
“Yes, he’s there. Don’t worry. It’s okay.”
Traffic jammed up at intersections as it was a busy time of day. Cars in Thailand usually find themselves bumper to bumper while motorbikes weave between the lanes. Erik scooted ahead yelling, “Hospital!” as we tried to maneuver through oncoming traffic.
He miraculously stopped all cars at some points and we cut through, only to find another clogged up motorway. My attention focused on the husband. He began to choke and chortle and without thinking, I unbuckled my belt and whipped around to adjust his head. I turned it to the side, draining out the pooled up saliva and lifting his head back on the pillow, but I quickly removed it as his tongue slipped back. Re-clearing his airway I propped his head with chin up and removed all the built up guck. Oh, god. Stay with us. You’re okay. You’re okay. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I coached as we wheeled through intersections. Trapped at a light, I could see the sweat roll down the wife as she began to get panicked and restless hitting the steering wheel with the heel of her hand.
“He’s okay. Okay.” I told her as my face screamed otherwise out the window to Erik. I stared at him, tears coming to my eyes. The husband was slipping, he began to quake more violently, and I didn’t know how much longer he would make it. Please get us there. Get us there. Be there. Be there. Erik whizzed ahead and got the attention of a traffic patrolman and the officer stopped traffic to let us through. We were close. If he could just hold on a little bit longer…
We were within spitting distance of Wichira Hospital when traffic became impassable. Erik tried to clear the way, but traffic had no idea of the severity of the situation. The wife panicked and took a turn.
“Wichira Hospital?! Right there!” I demanded.
“No, Mission, better. Thai Hopital.” She cried the sweat beading on her neck. I put my hand on her shoulder as I leaned over to the back seat, my other hand holding her husband’s mouth open and the tongue down. God, don’t be far, I begged.
We finally made it to the hospital after watching the red traffic light count down until it turned green, every second an eternity. When we reached the front door of the hospital, the EMTs came out and put him on a stretcher and whisked him inside. “You stay wit me?” She whined.
“Yes. Of course. We stay.” I told her, “no problem.”
“Thank you, thank you.” She called as she stumbled into the hospital to find her husband. “You stay.”
Erik met me inside in the waiting room. Sullen faces looked at the two farang that had entered with the hysterical Thai woman, both smelling like feces. Erik went to the washroom to clean his shorts while I sat in a blue, plastic, bowl chair watching the wife’s purse as she talked with doctors.
“My huhband. He go to Wichira Hopital. Seri-os conditon. I am police woman in Pang nga. Not home for one week. My huhband, oh.” She got up to check again.
She called her family from her cell phone and told us that they were going to meet her at the next hospital. The doctors and nurses got ready to transport the husband and I watched as they placed him onto the stretcher. All three of us walked to the ambulance and she stood confused and not knowing what to do.
“You go. I’ll drive your car to Wichira Hospital.” I told her. Hesitant at first, she gratefully went with her husband, “oh, thank you thank you.”
I pass Erik climbing on his bike as I stride to the car. It smells incredible and I try to put the windows down but only the back two obey. As I climb in I have to push the seat back to adjust to my legs and grip the shifter in my left hand- left hand- no problem. I pop the car into 1st as the ambulance whizzes past me and follow it into the street. Trying to find the blinkers, the windshield wipers swish on as I switch to the left lane. Erik whizzes past me and yells to turn on the blinkers. I would if I could find them. I quickly glance around and finally push on the hazards and turn off the wipers following the ambulance and honking my horn. Realizing that I don’t have to rush, I slow down and go carefully. Entering Wichira, Erik calls to me to park in a spot he had just seen someone pull out of. I reverse into it in one fluid motion. We enter the hospital and find ourselves surrounded by signage that is all in Thai with no idea where they could have gone.
We ask the front desk,” Do you know where the people on stretcher,” they stare blankly at us, “ambulance from Mission Hospital, just came in…” they continue to stare. “Uh, woman, man sick. Hospital came in here.” We mimic to them and they have no idea. “Okay, thank you. We tell them as we decide to venture on our own. We end up passing by a door just as the wife turns down the hall and she waves to us. Giving her back her keys, we ask about his condition.
“Can you stay wit huhband? I have to…uh, um…” she gestures signing and we tell her yes of course. A little while later he is wheeled out of Tomography and brought down to Emergency. We follow the four, white uniformed staff and stretcher and meet her on the way. She clutches my hand, “Now, you good friend. Good friend. Thank you.”
“No, problem, ka.” I tell her quietly, “You okay?” I ask
“Ka. Okay.” She answers while squeezing my fingers as we walk behind her husband’s stretcher. He is wheeled into a private room in the Emergency area and she tells me to sit. I do, as does Erik, and we wait. Her husband is on oxygen which a nurse is hand pumping into him as another holds an I.V. high into the air. We sit as she talks to the doctors and two people walk in and greet her. It is her brother and sister in law whom she called earlier. They have come to meet her. We introduce ourselves and they thank us. Now that they are there she is okay and we are thanked and told we can go. We leave with warm wishes, “Now, you good friend. I come to your house to visit you. I will come and tell you.” She tells us as she walks us to the doorway of the hospital.
“No problem. We hope he is okay. Good bye, ka.” We wai as we make our way to the motorbike. Climbing aboard, I look toward where we had departed. They wave as they turn to walk inside and we breathe a surprised sigh of relief with a tinge of worry as we wheel back toward home.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Girl, You Need To Find a J. O. B.
Enter an amplified state of exhaustion and pile on another coconut shell spoonful of stress... That's right folks, it's job-hunting time. So right now I'm currently at Molly-0 Schools-7. Who would have thought getting a job teaching English would be so darn hard? Well, anyone who had already tried I suppose.
I currently graduated from TEFL International in Oct. Where I gained my TESOL (teaching English to Students of Other Languages) certification and have since made Phuket, Thailand my home. This cozy little island off the West coast side of the Malay penninsula has everything one would want: beach, sun, city atmosphere, night-life, culture, shopping. You name it, it's probably here... Except a job at the moment, and that's where you find me.
It took a lot longer than anticipated to get a CV (or resume' to those in North America) ready and rearing to go. It seemed like every time I thought I had it ready, I would find something else either missing or incorrect. But eventually, I had a nice grouping of seven packets.
I woke up bright and early, but not bushy tailed as the stress of finding a job has left me restless. I rose to the meep meep, meep meep of my little silver-framed alarm clock. It was time to go hunting. I rolled out of bed and groped my cool linoleum floor for my glasses. Clumsily, I put them on as I stagger stepped into the sunlit corridor; its yellow walls intensifying the glow.
By 9 o'clock I was out the door. Just as I had planned. I had my trusty bag filled with CVs and examples of lesson plans I had already done during my training. After some encouraging words from my partner, and reassurance that I looked the part of teacher, I hopped on my silver and black Honda Wave 125 motorbike. Latching my helmet I waved goodbye as I tried to master the art of driving a motorbike with a skirt on. Knees tucked together in a point, I turned the corner and was officially on my way.
First stop, the international school. I had scoped it the night before and was sure of where to go. As I pulled off the pseudo Thai highway of criss-crossing vehicles and obscene honking of horns I took a deep breath and prepared myself. School number one, knock em' dead. I parked my bike and shot a quick glance in the side-view mirror. It was only 9:30 a.m. but the sun gets hot quickly here and I was already sweating around my hairline. A quick fluff and a smoothing of the skirt found me inside the doors of the school. Luckily, the office was right inside the entrance so I popped in, smile plastered on.
"May I help you?" the Thai secretary asked as she and three others attended to a large bulletin sign.
"Yes, I was wondering if you were hiring any English teachers?"
"Um, right now we are fully staffed."
"Oh, okay," I pondered back, a little disappointed. "Could I leave my CV with you in case you have an opening?" The secretary gave an audible groan as she tried to fit my words into a sentence that made sense to her. With a smile she motioned to someone behind me.
"Hello. Yes, we are full at the moment," a teacher using the copier answered the confused Thai's response.
"Alright, well could I leave my resume with you?" I asked cheerily. Great! Someone who could speak English well. This was looking up.
"You should talk to George." She said as she peeked her head around the office door and spied into the hallway. "George, do you have five minutes for this lovely lady?" She asked him aloud. George, however, made no sign of acknowledgement and left me there smiling like a doofus waiting for a response that wasn't to come. "Just go talk to him. Why don't you go? Go on." She encouraged with her spiky hair and metallic eyeliner defining her large eyes. So I did.
I approached him and took the que to sit as he waved his hand toward the table. I anxiously pulled out one of my very best copies of my CV. He looked it over while rubbing his temples. At times during our small talk he would look to the side as if in deep thought. A large man, probably in his fifties, George was obviously the principal of the school. His glasses strung around his neck and higher than thou air about him festering the hallway in which we sat. Was he wondering if I was the right person? Should I have answered something differently? I left with the possibility of a part-time job and and opening of a position next year. Basically, nada. He had my CV. He would call. Uh, huh.
Not letting myself get discouraged I stuck my helmet on and cruised down the dirt road and back out into traffic. Rolling the accelerator back I whipped into the stream of traffic. With a quick toe-tap shift I was into fourth gear and cruising at a steady 80 Kilometers an hour. I finally reached the U-turn opening and took the chance with a slight break in traffic. This was precious time today! I had to land a job. With an inner debate of where to go next, I decided that I should once again improve my CV. Luckily, I was near my TEFL school and since I paid them good money to go there I figured I could go do a quick touch up on their dime.
With new copies of my resume and fixed copies of my diploma, my deflated ego once again returned to normal. The next school on my list was one that my land lady had told me about. I cruised across town and into the neighborhood of where it should have been. Behind dusty industrial trucks and swerving vendor motorbikes, I finally made my way onto the correct street. With my head craned reading passing signs, I found myself at the end of a road leading to the Phuket Solid Waste Disposal Department. Um, not the school. I remembered her mentioning a blue sign and as I turned my bike around into oncoming traffic, I saw it. Well, it was blue but written all in Thai. Here goes nothing. What do I have to loose? Worst case, I find the back entrance to the Solid Waste Department.
As I roared down the street, my head angled to read all the signs, I felt myself take flight. Only after landing the jump off the speed bump did I notice a guard at a gate with yet another blue sign. She had said a blue sign. The guard smirked as I pulled up all knobbly-kneed, my toes pointing to the ground holding my bike straight as I tried to inquire if this was the appropriate building. "Is this a school?" I asked him. He answered by scratching his head. Okay, right. That tells me that he doesn't speak English. Let's try this, "English? School? Office?" He muttered something incomprehensible and I smiled, "Thank you." And carried on my way. If it wasn't the school, I'd turn around. If it was, score. As I approached the first building I saw kids in their tell-tale blue uniforms. Nice one, Molly. Now, Where the heck do I go?
I parked my bike to the side and climbed off. Placing my silver, baseball-hitter's helmet into the front basket (where the Thais usually have their dogs), I gave another quick glance in the mirror and a flap of my shirt to dry the beaded sweat down my back. Here goes school number two. I scanned the building and decided that the second floor may hold some answers as the sign above read: Multi-Language Center. I found myself looking into classrooms and admiring some wonderful craft-work from the students until I reached a doorway with the sign, Foreign Language Resource Library. Hmmm. Potential. Children rushed by me on the stairs as I debated if I should go in. The tinted window only gave hints at what was inside and the shoes lining along the wall were all adults, not like the other rooms with the brown and black school issued canvas runners. A lady came out and I took a deep breath, "Excuse me. Do you know where Lamp is?" (Lamp was the contact name my land lady had given me.) She pointed inside the room. "There?" She nodded and I thanked her as I kicked off my shoes and placed them alongside the others.
Fixing my hair one last time, I pushed open the large door and was hit by the wonderful air-con. I entered a large room where several people sat at wooden desks and shelving filled one side. I had no idea what my contact looked like or where she'd be. I just knew her name. Two people were arguing in front of me and I stood there awkwardly by the door waiting to be helped, but not wanting to interrupt. When my presence could no longer be ignored, the woman turned to me, "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm looking for Lamp?" I answered in a very sweet, I'm-very-sorry-for-interrupting way.
"I am her." The short Thai woman answered quizzically. She must have been wondering how the heck I knew her name and why.
"Nee is my land lady and she gave me your name. I am an English teacher. I was wondering if you were hiring any English teachers at the moment." All eyes in the room wee on me. I'll tell you the pressure sure mounts when everyonein the room is evaluating you and not just one person.
"Oh, okay," she smiled, "sit. I'll be right with you." Great. Here I am. This has to be good. I half asked and answered questions in my head, half listened to their heated debate if whether the teacher's test was too difficult for the students as I waited nervously on the brown, leather couch. After their discussion was over she came to me and looked over my CV. By this time I was ready to land this job. I wanted this job. I talked about my experiences in Burlington teaching younger children while also describing my time with older students at the Young Vermont Writers' Conference and TEFL. I shot out examples of teaching, she asked about my hobbies. I introduced my diplomas and certifications, she gave me an application to fill out. She told me about the possibility of a position and would I be willing or able to teach different subjects such as Science. Of course I would. I gave her examples of my lesson plans, and she photocopied them. I even saw one of my former classmates who was now employed there and she gave a good word for me. I left feeling good about the job, but uncertain. I'm still clutching my phone waiting for a call.
It was almost lunch time and I was determined to squeeze in another before I met my partner for lunch. As I was chugging along towards a school I had in mind I glanced to my right to double check that the lane was clear and spotted another school. Ah, hell. I thought to myself. Why not. It's close and I probably won't make it to the other before lunch. How awkward would that be?
With a break in traffic I turned my bike around and entered the gate of the school. Parking my bike on the side and taking another deep breath, I gathered up my bag and put on a smile as I walked towards God-knows-where the office was. I approached an old man in what seemed like an office, " Excuse me, are you hiring an English teacher?" He and another woman to his right exchanged confused glances at each other. Okay, let's try again, " I am an English Teacher. Do you need one?" Nothing. "I have a CV. Would you like it?" My temperature was rising with half embarrassment and the creeping feeling of awkwardness. They looked at each other and spoke in Thai. I stood, once again, like a doofus, smiling. They lead me across the green behind the building. I walked feeling like an outsider (Christ, could I be more of an outsider?) past open windows where lectured students giggled and pointed at me. I was like an Ostrich in a city in New England- quite an odd site.
I was lead to a cafeteria like structure where six teachers sat eating. Oh, God. Exactly what I didn't want to happen. An angry looking Principal shot piercing eyes at me as I was introduced-I think I was introduced- to him. I tried again, "Hello, are you hiring an English teacher?" I asked. All eyes were on me and whispers from the chowing Thais hunkered at the table burned my already red ears.
"English teacher? Yes." He answered as sternly and bitter as humanly possible. He motioned for me to sit at one of the long tables.
"Here is my CV. I was wondering if you needed an English teacher." I said as I handed it to him.
"Ah," he moaned as he placed his specs on his eyes.
"I recently graduated from TEFL." I added, trying to communicate something.
"We have teacher. Come two days one week. N.A. You know? N.A.?"
"No, Sorry. I don't," I confessed.
"In Patong. How long you in Phuket?"
"Almost three months." He got up, throwing my CV onto the table as a line of tee-heeing children donned in green shirts marched in. The made eyes at me. Some hid behind their friends. I smiled back at them while begging to be struck dead by lightning in my head. He returned and told me to follow a different teacher to get an address. I thanked him for his time and followed the man through the line of children. We came to a door where a loud speaker was blaring out instructions in Thai. I waited while he went inside to retrieve the address of N.A. (whatever that was) for me. The first man I had approached came up to me and asked me if I spoke Thai. I told him no, only a little and he laughed. Then he pondered something for a minute into the air and turned to me, "This school...No good. No money."
Wow, okay. "Thank you. Um," What do you say to that? I took it as my cue to leave as I could see the other man hiding inside the room waiting for me to go. As I was saying goodbye to him, two boys approached and he told them to say hi to the Farang. "Hello, Teacha'" one said. The other, the more daring of the two cleared his voice, "Good afternoon," and stuck out his hand to be shook. I shook and replied, "Good, afternoon. Nice to meet you too. Goodbye."
I walked away wishing that I could disappear. Where was that magic fairy dust? I just wanted to shrivel into my shoes and walk unnoticed. As I approached my bike the two boys came running up to me. "For you Teacha," the daring boy told me as he held out a cup of soggy, cold fries drizzled in ketchup towards me. "For me?"
He smiled. "Thank you." I said as I walked to my bike and they giggled off to a bench. I placed them, in the basket under my book bag as I mounted my bike to drive off. He ran back up to me, extending his hand. I shook my head and said, "No, High five!" and slapped him five as I gunned my bike and tore-ass out of there thinking, hey, at least the kids like me.
To be continued...Still to come: The rest of the day. ergh.
I currently graduated from TEFL International in Oct. Where I gained my TESOL (teaching English to Students of Other Languages) certification and have since made Phuket, Thailand my home. This cozy little island off the West coast side of the Malay penninsula has everything one would want: beach, sun, city atmosphere, night-life, culture, shopping. You name it, it's probably here... Except a job at the moment, and that's where you find me.
It took a lot longer than anticipated to get a CV (or resume' to those in North America) ready and rearing to go. It seemed like every time I thought I had it ready, I would find something else either missing or incorrect. But eventually, I had a nice grouping of seven packets.
I woke up bright and early, but not bushy tailed as the stress of finding a job has left me restless. I rose to the meep meep, meep meep of my little silver-framed alarm clock. It was time to go hunting. I rolled out of bed and groped my cool linoleum floor for my glasses. Clumsily, I put them on as I stagger stepped into the sunlit corridor; its yellow walls intensifying the glow.
By 9 o'clock I was out the door. Just as I had planned. I had my trusty bag filled with CVs and examples of lesson plans I had already done during my training. After some encouraging words from my partner, and reassurance that I looked the part of teacher, I hopped on my silver and black Honda Wave 125 motorbike. Latching my helmet I waved goodbye as I tried to master the art of driving a motorbike with a skirt on. Knees tucked together in a point, I turned the corner and was officially on my way.
First stop, the international school. I had scoped it the night before and was sure of where to go. As I pulled off the pseudo Thai highway of criss-crossing vehicles and obscene honking of horns I took a deep breath and prepared myself. School number one, knock em' dead. I parked my bike and shot a quick glance in the side-view mirror. It was only 9:30 a.m. but the sun gets hot quickly here and I was already sweating around my hairline. A quick fluff and a smoothing of the skirt found me inside the doors of the school. Luckily, the office was right inside the entrance so I popped in, smile plastered on.
"May I help you?" the Thai secretary asked as she and three others attended to a large bulletin sign.
"Yes, I was wondering if you were hiring any English teachers?"
"Um, right now we are fully staffed."
"Oh, okay," I pondered back, a little disappointed. "Could I leave my CV with you in case you have an opening?" The secretary gave an audible groan as she tried to fit my words into a sentence that made sense to her. With a smile she motioned to someone behind me.
"Hello. Yes, we are full at the moment," a teacher using the copier answered the confused Thai's response.
"Alright, well could I leave my resume with you?" I asked cheerily. Great! Someone who could speak English well. This was looking up.
"You should talk to George." She said as she peeked her head around the office door and spied into the hallway. "George, do you have five minutes for this lovely lady?" She asked him aloud. George, however, made no sign of acknowledgement and left me there smiling like a doofus waiting for a response that wasn't to come. "Just go talk to him. Why don't you go? Go on." She encouraged with her spiky hair and metallic eyeliner defining her large eyes. So I did.
I approached him and took the que to sit as he waved his hand toward the table. I anxiously pulled out one of my very best copies of my CV. He looked it over while rubbing his temples. At times during our small talk he would look to the side as if in deep thought. A large man, probably in his fifties, George was obviously the principal of the school. His glasses strung around his neck and higher than thou air about him festering the hallway in which we sat. Was he wondering if I was the right person? Should I have answered something differently? I left with the possibility of a part-time job and and opening of a position next year. Basically, nada. He had my CV. He would call. Uh, huh.
Not letting myself get discouraged I stuck my helmet on and cruised down the dirt road and back out into traffic. Rolling the accelerator back I whipped into the stream of traffic. With a quick toe-tap shift I was into fourth gear and cruising at a steady 80 Kilometers an hour. I finally reached the U-turn opening and took the chance with a slight break in traffic. This was precious time today! I had to land a job. With an inner debate of where to go next, I decided that I should once again improve my CV. Luckily, I was near my TEFL school and since I paid them good money to go there I figured I could go do a quick touch up on their dime.
With new copies of my resume and fixed copies of my diploma, my deflated ego once again returned to normal. The next school on my list was one that my land lady had told me about. I cruised across town and into the neighborhood of where it should have been. Behind dusty industrial trucks and swerving vendor motorbikes, I finally made my way onto the correct street. With my head craned reading passing signs, I found myself at the end of a road leading to the Phuket Solid Waste Disposal Department. Um, not the school. I remembered her mentioning a blue sign and as I turned my bike around into oncoming traffic, I saw it. Well, it was blue but written all in Thai. Here goes nothing. What do I have to loose? Worst case, I find the back entrance to the Solid Waste Department.
As I roared down the street, my head angled to read all the signs, I felt myself take flight. Only after landing the jump off the speed bump did I notice a guard at a gate with yet another blue sign. She had said a blue sign. The guard smirked as I pulled up all knobbly-kneed, my toes pointing to the ground holding my bike straight as I tried to inquire if this was the appropriate building. "Is this a school?" I asked him. He answered by scratching his head. Okay, right. That tells me that he doesn't speak English. Let's try this, "English? School? Office?" He muttered something incomprehensible and I smiled, "Thank you." And carried on my way. If it wasn't the school, I'd turn around. If it was, score. As I approached the first building I saw kids in their tell-tale blue uniforms. Nice one, Molly. Now, Where the heck do I go?
I parked my bike to the side and climbed off. Placing my silver, baseball-hitter's helmet into the front basket (where the Thais usually have their dogs), I gave another quick glance in the mirror and a flap of my shirt to dry the beaded sweat down my back. Here goes school number two. I scanned the building and decided that the second floor may hold some answers as the sign above read: Multi-Language Center. I found myself looking into classrooms and admiring some wonderful craft-work from the students until I reached a doorway with the sign, Foreign Language Resource Library. Hmmm. Potential. Children rushed by me on the stairs as I debated if I should go in. The tinted window only gave hints at what was inside and the shoes lining along the wall were all adults, not like the other rooms with the brown and black school issued canvas runners. A lady came out and I took a deep breath, "Excuse me. Do you know where Lamp is?" (Lamp was the contact name my land lady had given me.) She pointed inside the room. "There?" She nodded and I thanked her as I kicked off my shoes and placed them alongside the others.
Fixing my hair one last time, I pushed open the large door and was hit by the wonderful air-con. I entered a large room where several people sat at wooden desks and shelving filled one side. I had no idea what my contact looked like or where she'd be. I just knew her name. Two people were arguing in front of me and I stood there awkwardly by the door waiting to be helped, but not wanting to interrupt. When my presence could no longer be ignored, the woman turned to me, "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm looking for Lamp?" I answered in a very sweet, I'm-very-sorry-for-interrupting way.
"I am her." The short Thai woman answered quizzically. She must have been wondering how the heck I knew her name and why.
"Nee is my land lady and she gave me your name. I am an English teacher. I was wondering if you were hiring any English teachers at the moment." All eyes in the room wee on me. I'll tell you the pressure sure mounts when everyonein the room is evaluating you and not just one person.
"Oh, okay," she smiled, "sit. I'll be right with you." Great. Here I am. This has to be good. I half asked and answered questions in my head, half listened to their heated debate if whether the teacher's test was too difficult for the students as I waited nervously on the brown, leather couch. After their discussion was over she came to me and looked over my CV. By this time I was ready to land this job. I wanted this job. I talked about my experiences in Burlington teaching younger children while also describing my time with older students at the Young Vermont Writers' Conference and TEFL. I shot out examples of teaching, she asked about my hobbies. I introduced my diplomas and certifications, she gave me an application to fill out. She told me about the possibility of a position and would I be willing or able to teach different subjects such as Science. Of course I would. I gave her examples of my lesson plans, and she photocopied them. I even saw one of my former classmates who was now employed there and she gave a good word for me. I left feeling good about the job, but uncertain. I'm still clutching my phone waiting for a call.
It was almost lunch time and I was determined to squeeze in another before I met my partner for lunch. As I was chugging along towards a school I had in mind I glanced to my right to double check that the lane was clear and spotted another school. Ah, hell. I thought to myself. Why not. It's close and I probably won't make it to the other before lunch. How awkward would that be?
With a break in traffic I turned my bike around and entered the gate of the school. Parking my bike on the side and taking another deep breath, I gathered up my bag and put on a smile as I walked towards God-knows-where the office was. I approached an old man in what seemed like an office, " Excuse me, are you hiring an English teacher?" He and another woman to his right exchanged confused glances at each other. Okay, let's try again, " I am an English Teacher. Do you need one?" Nothing. "I have a CV. Would you like it?" My temperature was rising with half embarrassment and the creeping feeling of awkwardness. They looked at each other and spoke in Thai. I stood, once again, like a doofus, smiling. They lead me across the green behind the building. I walked feeling like an outsider (Christ, could I be more of an outsider?) past open windows where lectured students giggled and pointed at me. I was like an Ostrich in a city in New England- quite an odd site.
I was lead to a cafeteria like structure where six teachers sat eating. Oh, God. Exactly what I didn't want to happen. An angry looking Principal shot piercing eyes at me as I was introduced-I think I was introduced- to him. I tried again, "Hello, are you hiring an English teacher?" I asked. All eyes were on me and whispers from the chowing Thais hunkered at the table burned my already red ears.
"English teacher? Yes." He answered as sternly and bitter as humanly possible. He motioned for me to sit at one of the long tables.
"Here is my CV. I was wondering if you needed an English teacher." I said as I handed it to him.
"Ah," he moaned as he placed his specs on his eyes.
"I recently graduated from TEFL." I added, trying to communicate something.
"We have teacher. Come two days one week. N.A. You know? N.A.?"
"No, Sorry. I don't," I confessed.
"In Patong. How long you in Phuket?"
"Almost three months." He got up, throwing my CV onto the table as a line of tee-heeing children donned in green shirts marched in. The made eyes at me. Some hid behind their friends. I smiled back at them while begging to be struck dead by lightning in my head. He returned and told me to follow a different teacher to get an address. I thanked him for his time and followed the man through the line of children. We came to a door where a loud speaker was blaring out instructions in Thai. I waited while he went inside to retrieve the address of N.A. (whatever that was) for me. The first man I had approached came up to me and asked me if I spoke Thai. I told him no, only a little and he laughed. Then he pondered something for a minute into the air and turned to me, "This school...No good. No money."
Wow, okay. "Thank you. Um," What do you say to that? I took it as my cue to leave as I could see the other man hiding inside the room waiting for me to go. As I was saying goodbye to him, two boys approached and he told them to say hi to the Farang. "Hello, Teacha'" one said. The other, the more daring of the two cleared his voice, "Good afternoon," and stuck out his hand to be shook. I shook and replied, "Good, afternoon. Nice to meet you too. Goodbye."
I walked away wishing that I could disappear. Where was that magic fairy dust? I just wanted to shrivel into my shoes and walk unnoticed. As I approached my bike the two boys came running up to me. "For you Teacha," the daring boy told me as he held out a cup of soggy, cold fries drizzled in ketchup towards me. "For me?"
He smiled. "Thank you." I said as I walked to my bike and they giggled off to a bench. I placed them, in the basket under my book bag as I mounted my bike to drive off. He ran back up to me, extending his hand. I shook my head and said, "No, High five!" and slapped him five as I gunned my bike and tore-ass out of there thinking, hey, at least the kids like me.
To be continued...Still to come: The rest of the day. ergh.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Vegetarians Gone Wild
Dedicated to Joshua- 'The Violent Veg'
If I had to imagine what it would be like to be at the scene of a bombing, I now know what I would draw up:
It was a beautiful early morning. I woke up to the sounds of distant drummings and loud explosions. Wearily, I got dressed and exited the safety of the guest house. The street was lined with white and yellow shirts that glowed in the hot sun. A table sat in the entrance covered with a red silk cloth. On top were several kinds of fruit (pineapples and oranges primarily), candles, incense, and little cups of tea. As I peered down the street, my hand blocking the brightness of the sun, I came to count about ten other tables along the street all bearing the same gifts. These gifts were offerings to the possessed participants of the parade. If the owner of the table was lucky, one of these people would stop and bless them, maybe even drink their tea or give them a blessed pineapple.
I tried to find some shade to watch the parade as the sweat rolled down the crease of my back. I had heard about the Vegetarian Festival, been hearing about it since I arrived in Phuket Town. I even experience a little of it yesterday upon arrival with it's yellow flags waving in the slight breeze and the streets lined with booths selling all kinds of fried vegetarian treats. Spring rolls, coconut pancakes, fried fritters, noodles, and dough balls perfumed the air with the sweet smells of a fair. One only had to follow their nose to find the celebration.
The Chinese believe that on the ninth lunar month, if you abstain from all substances (meat, sex, alcohol, drugs), that it will bring you prosperity and good luck in the coming year. This celebration also embraces the nine Chinese Gods. Participants allow their bodies to become vessels and at any point can become, in a way, possessed. There are all kinds of rights performed at the temples including: firewalking, blade ladder climbing, dragon dancing, self-mutilation and more. The participants are protected by the gods from any scaring and bleeding from the mutilation and in the end, walk away not harmed.
With my back against the concrete wall of a cafe', I watched the beginning of the parade. People marched by with banners lined with switches from saplings, possessed beings walked along the parade path adorned in silk robes and multi-colored tunics, their heads shaking from side to side and their body all a quiver with a posse of five or six following close by. After watching this for quite some time and meeting back up with Erik, we decided to walk against the current to see what else was happening in the parade and along the streets leading to the five different Chinese Temples.
And that is when it happened. We took a left turn up the road and walked along the crowded sidewalk until we came to an open motorbike shop. The shop was similar to a two door garage, its motorbikes shoved far into the corners. This allowed for some standing room so Erik and I paused to survey the scene. All of a sudden a commotion broke out, and people were yelling and dashing into corners, hiding behind poles, other people, telephone booths... it all happened in a matter of seconds. My body was in slow motion. My brain was processing what was happening while my body slowly shifted to the right, rotating on my right foot and moving toward a corner of the shop. It's a bomb. What's happening? Why is everyone taking cover?I slid into the space, my head still facing the direction of the chaos, still trying to figure out what was happening. As I reached my spot I heard the explosions, my eyes locked with Erik's as he stooped along the perimeter, a grin across his face.
My ears were ringing with the constant explosions, and Erik's grin told me that it was okay. I fumbled with my camera, debating on whether to cover my ears or to take a picture. The crowd was dispersed and revealed a group of men, their shirts wrapped around their heads carrying a small box with an object inside on a kind of throne. It's four poles held by four men each cradling the figure of a god on top. Long bamboo poles entwined with strings of fireworks were being lit and held over the figure. Some dropped large clusters of fireworks onto the figure itself while the men bobbed up and down in a kind of dance. The eight o'clock sky darkened with the smoke making it hard to breath. I held my shirt over my mouth mimicking others. With the holes in the crowd, pieces of shrapnel came flying towards me. I was being hit by tiny specks of exploded fireworks. Luckily I still had my sunglasses on, protecting my eyes from the debris that struck my face. I was torn between saving my hearing and taking photos. As I was trying to do both, my ear pressed against my shoulder and the camera rotating in my hands, a Thai came and shoved a piece of cotton in my hand. Ah-ha, earplugs! I ripped it in half and half again, shoving the cotton into my ears. Now, hands free, I ran to Erik as he bobbed and weaved in and out of the smoky explosions. Offering him the other half of the cotton, he took my camera to get closer shots.
I stood back, coughing through the smoke with watering and stinging eyes. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Hundreds of fireworks were being draped upon this figure and, in turn, on these men. People in the crowd were throwing their own fireworks at the image; the explosions creating tiny sparks of light in the greyish blue cloud. You could barely make out the throne and its carriers. Only their yellow or white covered heads would poke from the smoke now and again. The noise pierced my ears. The explosions burnt my shirt and onlookers dove into corners. I was transfixed to another place: I was in Cairo, I was in the New York subway, I was on a London bus, I was in Iraq. I was panicked and brave all at the same time. I wanted to run and to watch, to hide and to participate.
The explosions and bamboo poles continued through nine other gods and a procession of incantated beings, musical accompaniment, and marchers. My lungs and throat ached with the grey smoke that swirled in my respiratory system. We walked away, ducking through explosions back around the corner until we found shelter away from the storm that was the Vegetarian Festival.
If I had to imagine what it would be like to be at the scene of a bombing, I now know what I would draw up:
It was a beautiful early morning. I woke up to the sounds of distant drummings and loud explosions. Wearily, I got dressed and exited the safety of the guest house. The street was lined with white and yellow shirts that glowed in the hot sun. A table sat in the entrance covered with a red silk cloth. On top were several kinds of fruit (pineapples and oranges primarily), candles, incense, and little cups of tea. As I peered down the street, my hand blocking the brightness of the sun, I came to count about ten other tables along the street all bearing the same gifts. These gifts were offerings to the possessed participants of the parade. If the owner of the table was lucky, one of these people would stop and bless them, maybe even drink their tea or give them a blessed pineapple.
I tried to find some shade to watch the parade as the sweat rolled down the crease of my back. I had heard about the Vegetarian Festival, been hearing about it since I arrived in Phuket Town. I even experience a little of it yesterday upon arrival with it's yellow flags waving in the slight breeze and the streets lined with booths selling all kinds of fried vegetarian treats. Spring rolls, coconut pancakes, fried fritters, noodles, and dough balls perfumed the air with the sweet smells of a fair. One only had to follow their nose to find the celebration.
The Chinese believe that on the ninth lunar month, if you abstain from all substances (meat, sex, alcohol, drugs), that it will bring you prosperity and good luck in the coming year. This celebration also embraces the nine Chinese Gods. Participants allow their bodies to become vessels and at any point can become, in a way, possessed. There are all kinds of rights performed at the temples including: firewalking, blade ladder climbing, dragon dancing, self-mutilation and more. The participants are protected by the gods from any scaring and bleeding from the mutilation and in the end, walk away not harmed.
With my back against the concrete wall of a cafe', I watched the beginning of the parade. People marched by with banners lined with switches from saplings, possessed beings walked along the parade path adorned in silk robes and multi-colored tunics, their heads shaking from side to side and their body all a quiver with a posse of five or six following close by. After watching this for quite some time and meeting back up with Erik, we decided to walk against the current to see what else was happening in the parade and along the streets leading to the five different Chinese Temples.
And that is when it happened. We took a left turn up the road and walked along the crowded sidewalk until we came to an open motorbike shop. The shop was similar to a two door garage, its motorbikes shoved far into the corners. This allowed for some standing room so Erik and I paused to survey the scene. All of a sudden a commotion broke out, and people were yelling and dashing into corners, hiding behind poles, other people, telephone booths... it all happened in a matter of seconds. My body was in slow motion. My brain was processing what was happening while my body slowly shifted to the right, rotating on my right foot and moving toward a corner of the shop. It's a bomb. What's happening? Why is everyone taking cover?I slid into the space, my head still facing the direction of the chaos, still trying to figure out what was happening. As I reached my spot I heard the explosions, my eyes locked with Erik's as he stooped along the perimeter, a grin across his face.
My ears were ringing with the constant explosions, and Erik's grin told me that it was okay. I fumbled with my camera, debating on whether to cover my ears or to take a picture. The crowd was dispersed and revealed a group of men, their shirts wrapped around their heads carrying a small box with an object inside on a kind of throne. It's four poles held by four men each cradling the figure of a god on top. Long bamboo poles entwined with strings of fireworks were being lit and held over the figure. Some dropped large clusters of fireworks onto the figure itself while the men bobbed up and down in a kind of dance. The eight o'clock sky darkened with the smoke making it hard to breath. I held my shirt over my mouth mimicking others. With the holes in the crowd, pieces of shrapnel came flying towards me. I was being hit by tiny specks of exploded fireworks. Luckily I still had my sunglasses on, protecting my eyes from the debris that struck my face. I was torn between saving my hearing and taking photos. As I was trying to do both, my ear pressed against my shoulder and the camera rotating in my hands, a Thai came and shoved a piece of cotton in my hand. Ah-ha, earplugs! I ripped it in half and half again, shoving the cotton into my ears. Now, hands free, I ran to Erik as he bobbed and weaved in and out of the smoky explosions. Offering him the other half of the cotton, he took my camera to get closer shots.
I stood back, coughing through the smoke with watering and stinging eyes. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Hundreds of fireworks were being draped upon this figure and, in turn, on these men. People in the crowd were throwing their own fireworks at the image; the explosions creating tiny sparks of light in the greyish blue cloud. You could barely make out the throne and its carriers. Only their yellow or white covered heads would poke from the smoke now and again. The noise pierced my ears. The explosions burnt my shirt and onlookers dove into corners. I was transfixed to another place: I was in Cairo, I was in the New York subway, I was on a London bus, I was in Iraq. I was panicked and brave all at the same time. I wanted to run and to watch, to hide and to participate.
The explosions and bamboo poles continued through nine other gods and a procession of incantated beings, musical accompaniment, and marchers. My lungs and throat ached with the grey smoke that swirled in my respiratory system. We walked away, ducking through explosions back around the corner until we found shelter away from the storm that was the Vegetarian Festival.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Never Trust a Bus Driver- Part Two
Bitterly, we boarded the second bus a few hours later. Erik and I settled in to the seats directly behind the driver, our valuables nestled close to us, determined not to let ourselves be duped again. We slept sporadically through several movies until we were abruptly woken by shouting.
"Everybody! Check your bags! Check your bags!” A Swedish man was calling up the aisle to us. We have 15,000 baht (US$450) missing! Check all your bags!"
"What's happening?" I drowsily turned to Erik.
"They're missing money. Check your bag."
The Swedish man was walking up and down the aisle checking with each person. His face contorted in bewilderment and rage. While I shuffled through the bag on my lap and found that everything was accounted for, I noticed the bus driver, his accomplice, and the sleeping ten year old boy all seemed to be oddly undisturbed by the commotion.
"What happened?" Erik calmly asked the Swede.
"We have been robbed! My girlfriend is missing her passport and 15,000 baht. Another is missing 13,000!" he said frantically, perspiration highlighted from the dome light of the cabin and panic flashing in his blue eyes. One of the passengers had woken to a rustling at her feet, only to find the bus driver's accomplice going through peoples’ bags as they slept.
With the anger growing among the passengers like an active volcano, courage also grew, and with the backing of his fellow travelers the Swedish man erupted, deciding to confront the bus driver.
"You stole my money! Where is my 15,000 baht? I want my money back! Now!" he demanded behind the driver’s seat.
The Thais pretended not to speak English, quietly shrugging off the uproar. The Swede began pleading, begging and yelled again. Finally fed up with no response from the Thais, he sulked back to his seat to confer with the rest of his group.
Erik and I sat in our front row seats, shocked by the whole ordeal. My pulse was racing. What’s going to happen? I looked from the back of the bus to the front; tensions were high. Interested in what the Thais were doing, Erik leaned over the divider, spying on the driver and his accomplice.
"They're on the phone, whispering!" he reported to the rest of the bus. "Call the tourist police. Have them meet us at the bus station. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
A look of determination came over the Swede and he marched, one guy with him as backup, to the front of the bus once again.
"That’s it! Pull over the bus!" he demanded. "We want our money back! Stop the bus! Stop the bus!" he shouted, his voice now raised to a deafening roar. The Thais responded this time, barking back at the Swede to sit down and be quiet. Erik was leaning over the rail watching the whole thing as I sat back in fear. This continued back and forth, each party getting louder, arm gestures increasing with violent suggestion until the yelling came to a disturbing climax.
"SIT DOWN! You see?! You SEE?!" The bus driver and his accomplice yelled to the two men.
Erik slowly leaned back. "He just pulled out a gun," he whispered to me as the Swede and muscle walked back to their seats. "It was right in front of me! A revolver like thing. He just pulled it out, right in the guy's face."
"What?" I asked is disbelief. "Holy shit." That was the end of us having any chance of reclaiming stolen property. Can't really argue with a gun, can you?
The hushed bus bumped quietly along, the passengers exchanging wide-eyed, nervous glances. The sun was just beginning to crest in front of us, the wet smell of morning coming in through the cracked windows. All of a sudden, the continual bumping changed its rhythm; we had turned onto a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.
Oh hell, what now? Were they going to execute us? Dump us? What could they possibly be doing with a bus load of foreigners in the middle of nowhere and especially, after an altercation? I recalled the woman in the Tokyo airport, her wild hair matted to her neck, who told me about the bus massacre in southern Thailand before we arrived here. A group of militants had overtaken the bus and pulled off all the tourists, killing each American they found. I dismissed it at the time. An obvious scare tactic from an older, gullible tourist who had eaten up every word she was told. Now? Well, now I was a bit concerned.
The bus jerked to the side and we were ordered out. As we all shuffled off the bus, half a dozen men came out of the bushes — shady Thai dudes, all grizzly and big — emerging from the dust and dirt of Nowheresville.
They shoved our bags into our arms while shouting destinations at us, Phuket! Samui! Trang! At our answer, they ushered us into the corresponding songthaews. We rode crammed together, one on top of the other, three people clinging to the back railings and hanging off, and several inside, all of us in stunned confusion and terror. Where were we going? All the way to Phuket like this?
We ended up getting dumped at the real bus station — which the robbers understandably wanted to avoid — and plopped onto another bus. A nice government-run bus. We rode that bus all the way into Phuket, short a camera and some trust, a little frazzled, but hey, at least we weren't shot.
Lesson learned:Private companies suck.
"Everybody! Check your bags! Check your bags!” A Swedish man was calling up the aisle to us. We have 15,000 baht (US$450) missing! Check all your bags!"
"What's happening?" I drowsily turned to Erik.
"They're missing money. Check your bag."
The Swedish man was walking up and down the aisle checking with each person. His face contorted in bewilderment and rage. While I shuffled through the bag on my lap and found that everything was accounted for, I noticed the bus driver, his accomplice, and the sleeping ten year old boy all seemed to be oddly undisturbed by the commotion.
"What happened?" Erik calmly asked the Swede.
"We have been robbed! My girlfriend is missing her passport and 15,000 baht. Another is missing 13,000!" he said frantically, perspiration highlighted from the dome light of the cabin and panic flashing in his blue eyes. One of the passengers had woken to a rustling at her feet, only to find the bus driver's accomplice going through peoples’ bags as they slept.
With the anger growing among the passengers like an active volcano, courage also grew, and with the backing of his fellow travelers the Swedish man erupted, deciding to confront the bus driver.
"You stole my money! Where is my 15,000 baht? I want my money back! Now!" he demanded behind the driver’s seat.
The Thais pretended not to speak English, quietly shrugging off the uproar. The Swede began pleading, begging and yelled again. Finally fed up with no response from the Thais, he sulked back to his seat to confer with the rest of his group.
Erik and I sat in our front row seats, shocked by the whole ordeal. My pulse was racing. What’s going to happen? I looked from the back of the bus to the front; tensions were high. Interested in what the Thais were doing, Erik leaned over the divider, spying on the driver and his accomplice.
"They're on the phone, whispering!" he reported to the rest of the bus. "Call the tourist police. Have them meet us at the bus station. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
A look of determination came over the Swede and he marched, one guy with him as backup, to the front of the bus once again.
"That’s it! Pull over the bus!" he demanded. "We want our money back! Stop the bus! Stop the bus!" he shouted, his voice now raised to a deafening roar. The Thais responded this time, barking back at the Swede to sit down and be quiet. Erik was leaning over the rail watching the whole thing as I sat back in fear. This continued back and forth, each party getting louder, arm gestures increasing with violent suggestion until the yelling came to a disturbing climax.
"SIT DOWN! You see?! You SEE?!" The bus driver and his accomplice yelled to the two men.
Erik slowly leaned back. "He just pulled out a gun," he whispered to me as the Swede and muscle walked back to their seats. "It was right in front of me! A revolver like thing. He just pulled it out, right in the guy's face."
"What?" I asked is disbelief. "Holy shit." That was the end of us having any chance of reclaiming stolen property. Can't really argue with a gun, can you?
The hushed bus bumped quietly along, the passengers exchanging wide-eyed, nervous glances. The sun was just beginning to crest in front of us, the wet smell of morning coming in through the cracked windows. All of a sudden, the continual bumping changed its rhythm; we had turned onto a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.
Oh hell, what now? Were they going to execute us? Dump us? What could they possibly be doing with a bus load of foreigners in the middle of nowhere and especially, after an altercation? I recalled the woman in the Tokyo airport, her wild hair matted to her neck, who told me about the bus massacre in southern Thailand before we arrived here. A group of militants had overtaken the bus and pulled off all the tourists, killing each American they found. I dismissed it at the time. An obvious scare tactic from an older, gullible tourist who had eaten up every word she was told. Now? Well, now I was a bit concerned.
The bus jerked to the side and we were ordered out. As we all shuffled off the bus, half a dozen men came out of the bushes — shady Thai dudes, all grizzly and big — emerging from the dust and dirt of Nowheresville.
They shoved our bags into our arms while shouting destinations at us, Phuket! Samui! Trang! At our answer, they ushered us into the corresponding songthaews. We rode crammed together, one on top of the other, three people clinging to the back railings and hanging off, and several inside, all of us in stunned confusion and terror. Where were we going? All the way to Phuket like this?
We ended up getting dumped at the real bus station — which the robbers understandably wanted to avoid — and plopped onto another bus. A nice government-run bus. We rode that bus all the way into Phuket, short a camera and some trust, a little frazzled, but hey, at least we weren't shot.
Lesson learned:Private companies suck.
Never Trust a Bus Driver- Part One
"It would save us..." I made a scrunched up I'm-a-human-calculator face, "190 baht. That's a night’s stay somewhere!"
Erik and I had been to three different travel agencies to compare the price of getting to Phuket, a southern island halfway down the Malay Peninsula, from Chiang Mai, a mountainous city close to the Burmese border in the northwest of Thailand. We had discussed all possible routes and explored combination avenues of van + bus + train, but this seemed to be the best bet with the least amount of stress. With our pockets a lot lighter than planned, we settled on a 900 baht (US$24.51 each) bus trip.
The agency of choice consisted of a nice Thai couple who were more than happy to show us pictures of the “V.I.P.” air-conditioned bus and explain the actual process of getting to Phuket in full. Their broken English was a sing-song cadence of firm instruction mixed with light-hearted jokes.
"But do you trust them? Should we just go through the guest house?" a concerned Erik asked.
"And pay 80 baht more each? They all showed us the same picture of the bus. It's all the same deal. It just depends on where you are picked up," I assured, determined in my frugality.
As we exchanged money for tickets we were instructed about the pickup: "Be here. Sik o'clock. Here. Sik o'clock. Okay? Sik o’clock? (sic)” The agent told us so many times that I was afraid I would get a tardy slip if we were five minutes late.
We turned up at six o’clock and waited in the fluorescent-lit room, its polished linoleum floor reflecting the white strips of light. A sick-sweet smell of pork buns and fish sauce added to the early morning ambience in the one-room office and home.
Erik nervously paced up and down the room past posters depicting smiling tourists atop elephants, white-water rafting, and trekking, while I hunkered down in one of three available folding metal chairs — the kind you take out from the basement for family gatherings, careful to wipe off the spider webs and dust — offered to waiting guests. Across from me sat a worn wooden desk piled with folders, brochures and an archaic computer. The owner-wife sat playing a computer game as her young daughter slept underneath a delicate mosquito net of lace.
After 45 minutes, a rusty grey songthaew (pick-up truck with a covered bed and two benches for passengers) arrived and zoomed us, packed knee to knee with other travelers, to our bus that waited for us at a gas station. The driver hurried us off the songthaew and tossed our bags into the lower compartment of the idling bus while Erik and I scurried on to find a seat. On board we were lucky enough to get two comfy, reclining chairs with blankets right in front of a large television that played such classic movies as Con Air, featuring a jacked Nicholas Cage.
The ride itself was fine. We floated in and out of sleep to adjust body positions and to stretch cramped legs. It was a decent night until we were jolted awake by our fragrantly gnarly bus driver calling, "Bangkok, Bangkok. Wake up. Wake up. Bangkok," as he went by tapping people’s shoulders.
We stretched and wiped the sleep out of our eyes. Half-glancing out of the window I saw the bus driver and staff start to toss our bags and others onto the street. Snapping awake with the threat of losing my bag, we rushed into the 5 a.m. Bangkok air to rescue them from harm. By the time we cinched up — a matter of seconds — the bus was taking off, a thick cloud of black fumes trailing behind.
"They're sure in a rush,” Erik scoffed.
I grumbled in agreement, trying to conceal my morning breath. I stood in the heavy, sticky air, blinking my eyes into coherence and my body into functionality. We stood in the middle of Bangkok at a roundabout deemed Democracy Monument. The sky was still a dark haze of bluish black with only a slight pink hint of morning peeking through the sharp cityscape.
The other passengers fanned out in varying directions around the monument. Erik and I were supposed to go to “KS Guesthouse” to confirm our seats on the next bus, so we hiked through the eerily silent streets of Bangkok, passing benches with sleeping Thais and displaced tourists from the night before.
We rolled into the guesthouse in our rumpled clothes and backpacks and found the deskman.
"We just got off the bus from Chiang Mai. We are supposed to confirm our seats to Phuket."
"Yeah, okay. Is confirmed," the unusually awake looking attendant assured us.
"Great. Here at six o'clock?" We knew the drill.
"Yeah, yeah. Here at sik o'clock (sic). Okay."
"Can we leave a bag here?" I hoped to be able to walk around Bangkok without having to lug the enormous weight around and besides, my shoulders were already hurting from the walk here.
"Okay. Bags. Yeah. In room," he said pointing to a locked gate halfway down a flight of stairs. He handed Erik the key to store my pack, and having decided to take his along with us, he unloaded some heavy objects and unnecessary weight into my bag as I waited upstairs watching Thai television with the attendant.
Sitting in the guesthouse was about as interesting as flicking boogers on the wall so, we decided to make the best of the few hours we had and walked. Our meandering lead us to Khao San Road (known as the backpackers rendezvous) as people were just beginning to set up shop for the day, and those still running from the night before were beginning to settle down. We chose a quiet café with cozy chairs, ordered two coffees and I began to read as Erik went through his bag.
"Do you have my camera?" he asked.
A rush of dread came over me. God, did I have his camera? I rifled through my little day bag. "No, I have mine. It's not in there?" I asked as he sat elbow deep into his bag, trying to conceal the panic that we both were starting to feel wash over us.
"Do you want me to look?" I asked as he sat replaying the last time he had his camera in his mind’s eye. I began looking through his bag-thoroughly. It had to be in here. It just had to be.
"My bag was disheveled when I got it from the bus,” he said wearily. “I noticed it."
Surely it couldn’t have been stolen. “Did you put it in my bag at the guest house?"
"No. I would have remembered," he answered, the anger of helplessness welling up.
"Let's check my bag. Come on," I soothed him, not knowing how exactly to fix the situation. In times of mini-crisis like these, all one can do is to try to be positive.
Back at the guesthouse, our fears were confirmed. Realistically, what could we do? We could call the guesthouse and tell them. We could call the Tourist police and make a statement but we couldn't find the bus or get the camera back. We had to come to terms with the fact that Erik's camera was stolen. The pictures from half our trip were gone — and part of me also worried about finding my digital head pasted on an illicit body on the internet or worse… someone else finding it and thinking it real.
It was a major downer. A tragic loss and a financial, spiritual, and cultural bummer.
Erik and I had been to three different travel agencies to compare the price of getting to Phuket, a southern island halfway down the Malay Peninsula, from Chiang Mai, a mountainous city close to the Burmese border in the northwest of Thailand. We had discussed all possible routes and explored combination avenues of van + bus + train, but this seemed to be the best bet with the least amount of stress. With our pockets a lot lighter than planned, we settled on a 900 baht (US$24.51 each) bus trip.
The agency of choice consisted of a nice Thai couple who were more than happy to show us pictures of the “V.I.P.” air-conditioned bus and explain the actual process of getting to Phuket in full. Their broken English was a sing-song cadence of firm instruction mixed with light-hearted jokes.
"But do you trust them? Should we just go through the guest house?" a concerned Erik asked.
"And pay 80 baht more each? They all showed us the same picture of the bus. It's all the same deal. It just depends on where you are picked up," I assured, determined in my frugality.
As we exchanged money for tickets we were instructed about the pickup: "Be here. Sik o'clock. Here. Sik o'clock. Okay? Sik o’clock? (sic)” The agent told us so many times that I was afraid I would get a tardy slip if we were five minutes late.
We turned up at six o’clock and waited in the fluorescent-lit room, its polished linoleum floor reflecting the white strips of light. A sick-sweet smell of pork buns and fish sauce added to the early morning ambience in the one-room office and home.
Erik nervously paced up and down the room past posters depicting smiling tourists atop elephants, white-water rafting, and trekking, while I hunkered down in one of three available folding metal chairs — the kind you take out from the basement for family gatherings, careful to wipe off the spider webs and dust — offered to waiting guests. Across from me sat a worn wooden desk piled with folders, brochures and an archaic computer. The owner-wife sat playing a computer game as her young daughter slept underneath a delicate mosquito net of lace.
After 45 minutes, a rusty grey songthaew (pick-up truck with a covered bed and two benches for passengers) arrived and zoomed us, packed knee to knee with other travelers, to our bus that waited for us at a gas station. The driver hurried us off the songthaew and tossed our bags into the lower compartment of the idling bus while Erik and I scurried on to find a seat. On board we were lucky enough to get two comfy, reclining chairs with blankets right in front of a large television that played such classic movies as Con Air, featuring a jacked Nicholas Cage.
The ride itself was fine. We floated in and out of sleep to adjust body positions and to stretch cramped legs. It was a decent night until we were jolted awake by our fragrantly gnarly bus driver calling, "Bangkok, Bangkok. Wake up. Wake up. Bangkok," as he went by tapping people’s shoulders.
We stretched and wiped the sleep out of our eyes. Half-glancing out of the window I saw the bus driver and staff start to toss our bags and others onto the street. Snapping awake with the threat of losing my bag, we rushed into the 5 a.m. Bangkok air to rescue them from harm. By the time we cinched up — a matter of seconds — the bus was taking off, a thick cloud of black fumes trailing behind.
"They're sure in a rush,” Erik scoffed.
I grumbled in agreement, trying to conceal my morning breath. I stood in the heavy, sticky air, blinking my eyes into coherence and my body into functionality. We stood in the middle of Bangkok at a roundabout deemed Democracy Monument. The sky was still a dark haze of bluish black with only a slight pink hint of morning peeking through the sharp cityscape.
The other passengers fanned out in varying directions around the monument. Erik and I were supposed to go to “KS Guesthouse” to confirm our seats on the next bus, so we hiked through the eerily silent streets of Bangkok, passing benches with sleeping Thais and displaced tourists from the night before.
We rolled into the guesthouse in our rumpled clothes and backpacks and found the deskman.
"We just got off the bus from Chiang Mai. We are supposed to confirm our seats to Phuket."
"Yeah, okay. Is confirmed," the unusually awake looking attendant assured us.
"Great. Here at six o'clock?" We knew the drill.
"Yeah, yeah. Here at sik o'clock (sic). Okay."
"Can we leave a bag here?" I hoped to be able to walk around Bangkok without having to lug the enormous weight around and besides, my shoulders were already hurting from the walk here.
"Okay. Bags. Yeah. In room," he said pointing to a locked gate halfway down a flight of stairs. He handed Erik the key to store my pack, and having decided to take his along with us, he unloaded some heavy objects and unnecessary weight into my bag as I waited upstairs watching Thai television with the attendant.
Sitting in the guesthouse was about as interesting as flicking boogers on the wall so, we decided to make the best of the few hours we had and walked. Our meandering lead us to Khao San Road (known as the backpackers rendezvous) as people were just beginning to set up shop for the day, and those still running from the night before were beginning to settle down. We chose a quiet café with cozy chairs, ordered two coffees and I began to read as Erik went through his bag.
"Do you have my camera?" he asked.
A rush of dread came over me. God, did I have his camera? I rifled through my little day bag. "No, I have mine. It's not in there?" I asked as he sat elbow deep into his bag, trying to conceal the panic that we both were starting to feel wash over us.
"Do you want me to look?" I asked as he sat replaying the last time he had his camera in his mind’s eye. I began looking through his bag-thoroughly. It had to be in here. It just had to be.
"My bag was disheveled when I got it from the bus,” he said wearily. “I noticed it."
Surely it couldn’t have been stolen. “Did you put it in my bag at the guest house?"
"No. I would have remembered," he answered, the anger of helplessness welling up.
"Let's check my bag. Come on," I soothed him, not knowing how exactly to fix the situation. In times of mini-crisis like these, all one can do is to try to be positive.
Back at the guesthouse, our fears were confirmed. Realistically, what could we do? We could call the guesthouse and tell them. We could call the Tourist police and make a statement but we couldn't find the bus or get the camera back. We had to come to terms with the fact that Erik's camera was stolen. The pictures from half our trip were gone — and part of me also worried about finding my digital head pasted on an illicit body on the internet or worse… someone else finding it and thinking it real.
It was a major downer. A tragic loss and a financial, spiritual, and cultural bummer.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Chinatown- Bangkok style
"Beware da pickapocket," a weathered Chinese lady said to me sternly, our eyes meeting for a brief moment as we passed in the market. Her purse was strapped to her front like an infant carrier, cradled against her body for protection.
Her friendly warning raised my already heightened awareness of my back pockets. With my right hand slightly behind me touching the pocket containing my wallet, and the left doing the same to my passport, I shuffled with the slow moving crowd through a corridor lined with, well, junk.
I'm no stranger to the dangers of traveling and I was well aware of my surroundings. Having dropped off my large pack at the bus station for storage, I maneuvered relatively well through the sea of people with their heads bobbing in and out of the shoebox-sized stores.
Erik, on the other hand, still had his pack and it was limiting his agility to wind around a family stopped to buy a pair of Pokémon socks. He instead toddled through, catching glares from shop keepers afraid that he would knock their precious cargo over.
Chinatown in Bangkok was stimulus overload. Everywhere we flowed with the masses, the scenery morphing into a different section as we went along.
"We've found the towel department!" I squealed in amusement.
"Look, it's the hair accessory aisle," Erik joked back, pointing to his right.
"Where's the sunglass section?" Our goal was to purchase a cheap pair of shades, as mine had broken. But where, in this busy, chaotic maze could they be? We walked around the tunnels of goods with the others like a colony of ants: single file and constantly looking, searching, moving.
“Which way now?" I called behind me. “Left? Right? Straight?” The right led down a small side street lined with food carts, the smells of cooking meats and sweet jellied soy hung in the air. The left was full of trinket salesmen with glittering plastic toys and porcelain salt shakers shaped like cats. Straight continued down the current path of entombment with the ants.
Decisions had to be made in split seconds; the crowd didn't stop so a tourist could look around and decide. They had twenty packs of cheap plastic doll key chains and shiny barrettes to purchase for crying out loud!
We emerged from the tight corridor, spilling into the byway. Fresh fruit stands rimmed the small area giving a splash of organic color to the dimly lit tunnel. Cart men sprayed water from plastic bottles on apples, drenching the fruit in a cool mist that beaded on the tight pink and green skins. One man meticulously placed stems and leaves perfectly atop his bunches of merlot, eyeball-sized grapes. Sliced cantaloupe, papaya, pineapple and green mango sat on ice displayed within a glass cart, ready to be placed in a plastic bag, hit with the dull side of a knife to break it into chunks, and eaten with a small wooden dowel. Piles of fruit still wrapped in its leathery skin sat in pyramids while bunches of ripe, yellow bananas hung on strings. Cardboard signs of curlicue Thai writing separated the piles of produce by price, or what I assumed was the price.
The fruit market led us into the dried-stuffs department. Little dried shrimps, fish, and unknown and indecipherable dried entities sat in large canvas and plastic bags to be weighed out and handed over. Pork rinds? Pig’s ears? Tails? Dried squid? Octopus? I couldn't say, but it looked like cheese puffs without the cheese and came in different shapes and sizes of twisted and gnarled spindles.
Sizzling meat on skewers smoked the area with a delicious tamarind-barbecue aroma. Paying the incredibly reasonable five baht price to the cart of our choice, we requested two kinds of the tender meat. The rumple-faced cart owner proudly presented the sticks, a smile wide across his face at the farang (foreigners) eating his product above the many competitors. We spilt the meat so we each had a selection to try and at each progressive chew, our eyes grew wide, our excitement mounted — how tasty!
We munched as we made our way back into the current, feeling like water going down into a dark and tight drain. We were once again squished together with the petite bodies of Asians and the odd looming tourist. We shuffled past handbags and utility belts and abruptly came to a standstill. We were all smushed together and wondering why we weren't going anywhere. In the distance the crowd separated and piled onto the sides, bodies twisted and packed together. What was going on? And then we heard it — the rumble of a motor scooter. A motor scooter! People couldn't even get through here among people, but now we had to find room to get a motor scooter by? The bike moved through the crowd like an egg passing through the body of a snake, the crowd expanding and contracting around the vehicle as it passed.
We flowed through the plastic bag and wrapping department, the textile department, the luggage department and the cheap jewelry department and as we approached the stuffed animal department, it began to rain. Booth keepers scrambled to put up large plastic sheets over their goods.
A group of men gathered around one particular booth, laughing and shuffling things. What were they looking at? We inched closer and tip-toe-peered over shoulders. Porn, lots and lots of porn: DVD's, pictures and even a sex toy magazine, its pages fluttering scantily in the breeze. Erik and I exchanged a humored glance, a chuckle and moved on in our search.
Sunglasses! A whole section of sunglasses unraveled before us. We found them! I scanned the rows of imitation Oakleys, Diors, Bvgaris and Chanels, trying on each over-sized pair for the right fit. As I looked at myself in a mirror, wearing a pair of fake Dolce & Gabbanas with encrusted faux-diamond arms, I noticed a large object over my left shoulder hanging from the booth behind me. A gun. Holy shit, guns? It couldn’t be real. Could it?
"I guess the sunglasses are in the shady department with the porn and guns," Erik snickered to himself.
The rain picked up. Huge drops began to plummet us. Time stops in Thailand when it rains; traffic pulls over, businesses close up, electricity fades in an out. Everyone at the market hurriedly covered their wares with plastic sheets and sought cover. People on motorbikes pulled off the road nearby to seek shelter underneath a building's overhang. The rain soon became a downpour. Lightning illuminated the market and a moment later the sky cracked open with the sound of a whip.
We stopped along an outer street, out of the throngs of the center market, under an awning to plan our next move. The storefront displayed large gold necklaces with cloudy green jewels. Inside the store, on top of one of the glass jewelry cases filled with yellow-gold sparkles on red silk, knelt a small Thai girl.
Her hair was tied back haphazardly. She was delicately shaking out puffs of powder and rubbing it on her skin. Several Thai women, relatives perhaps, sat around the cases talking. But this little girl, atop the gleaming case of jewelry, applied white powder on her face like a Renaissance courtesan. She had a seriousness and grace about her. She caught my eye and held it as she daintily shook more out into her tiny, upturned palm. She didn't smile, but she didn't grimace either. She just held my eye as she continued smoothing out the powder, turning her skin a ghostly white.
Everything stopped. The sound of my breathing and her eyes were all there was. She was like a pearl, a gem among the shining brilliance of the room. Was she for sale? Was she on display, or just an ordinary kid who just happened to like sitting on jewelry cases instead of the floor?
There was something so innocent, but also perverse in this act. I couldn't help thinking of all the girls involved with the sex trade here, kidnapped or bred into the life of a whore. I became enchanted with this girl, hoping that she wasn't one, but at the same time imagining she was. There was a kind of withdrawal in her eye, an absence. Maybe she was just mechanically powdering as if brushing her teeth; an act so ordinary it was boring and she dissolved into herself while doing it. Why didn't her family notice her?
It was dark and grey, drizzling outside, but this store was like a warm fire with all its radiant, lush colors.
My mind was snapped away by a jolt of lightning reflecting on the glass, a crack of thunder and of the pounding rain. We had a train to catch.
Her friendly warning raised my already heightened awareness of my back pockets. With my right hand slightly behind me touching the pocket containing my wallet, and the left doing the same to my passport, I shuffled with the slow moving crowd through a corridor lined with, well, junk.
I'm no stranger to the dangers of traveling and I was well aware of my surroundings. Having dropped off my large pack at the bus station for storage, I maneuvered relatively well through the sea of people with their heads bobbing in and out of the shoebox-sized stores.
Erik, on the other hand, still had his pack and it was limiting his agility to wind around a family stopped to buy a pair of Pokémon socks. He instead toddled through, catching glares from shop keepers afraid that he would knock their precious cargo over.
Chinatown in Bangkok was stimulus overload. Everywhere we flowed with the masses, the scenery morphing into a different section as we went along.
"We've found the towel department!" I squealed in amusement.
"Look, it's the hair accessory aisle," Erik joked back, pointing to his right.
"Where's the sunglass section?" Our goal was to purchase a cheap pair of shades, as mine had broken. But where, in this busy, chaotic maze could they be? We walked around the tunnels of goods with the others like a colony of ants: single file and constantly looking, searching, moving.
“Which way now?" I called behind me. “Left? Right? Straight?” The right led down a small side street lined with food carts, the smells of cooking meats and sweet jellied soy hung in the air. The left was full of trinket salesmen with glittering plastic toys and porcelain salt shakers shaped like cats. Straight continued down the current path of entombment with the ants.
Decisions had to be made in split seconds; the crowd didn't stop so a tourist could look around and decide. They had twenty packs of cheap plastic doll key chains and shiny barrettes to purchase for crying out loud!
We emerged from the tight corridor, spilling into the byway. Fresh fruit stands rimmed the small area giving a splash of organic color to the dimly lit tunnel. Cart men sprayed water from plastic bottles on apples, drenching the fruit in a cool mist that beaded on the tight pink and green skins. One man meticulously placed stems and leaves perfectly atop his bunches of merlot, eyeball-sized grapes. Sliced cantaloupe, papaya, pineapple and green mango sat on ice displayed within a glass cart, ready to be placed in a plastic bag, hit with the dull side of a knife to break it into chunks, and eaten with a small wooden dowel. Piles of fruit still wrapped in its leathery skin sat in pyramids while bunches of ripe, yellow bananas hung on strings. Cardboard signs of curlicue Thai writing separated the piles of produce by price, or what I assumed was the price.
The fruit market led us into the dried-stuffs department. Little dried shrimps, fish, and unknown and indecipherable dried entities sat in large canvas and plastic bags to be weighed out and handed over. Pork rinds? Pig’s ears? Tails? Dried squid? Octopus? I couldn't say, but it looked like cheese puffs without the cheese and came in different shapes and sizes of twisted and gnarled spindles.
Sizzling meat on skewers smoked the area with a delicious tamarind-barbecue aroma. Paying the incredibly reasonable five baht price to the cart of our choice, we requested two kinds of the tender meat. The rumple-faced cart owner proudly presented the sticks, a smile wide across his face at the farang (foreigners) eating his product above the many competitors. We spilt the meat so we each had a selection to try and at each progressive chew, our eyes grew wide, our excitement mounted — how tasty!
We munched as we made our way back into the current, feeling like water going down into a dark and tight drain. We were once again squished together with the petite bodies of Asians and the odd looming tourist. We shuffled past handbags and utility belts and abruptly came to a standstill. We were all smushed together and wondering why we weren't going anywhere. In the distance the crowd separated and piled onto the sides, bodies twisted and packed together. What was going on? And then we heard it — the rumble of a motor scooter. A motor scooter! People couldn't even get through here among people, but now we had to find room to get a motor scooter by? The bike moved through the crowd like an egg passing through the body of a snake, the crowd expanding and contracting around the vehicle as it passed.
We flowed through the plastic bag and wrapping department, the textile department, the luggage department and the cheap jewelry department and as we approached the stuffed animal department, it began to rain. Booth keepers scrambled to put up large plastic sheets over their goods.
A group of men gathered around one particular booth, laughing and shuffling things. What were they looking at? We inched closer and tip-toe-peered over shoulders. Porn, lots and lots of porn: DVD's, pictures and even a sex toy magazine, its pages fluttering scantily in the breeze. Erik and I exchanged a humored glance, a chuckle and moved on in our search.
Sunglasses! A whole section of sunglasses unraveled before us. We found them! I scanned the rows of imitation Oakleys, Diors, Bvgaris and Chanels, trying on each over-sized pair for the right fit. As I looked at myself in a mirror, wearing a pair of fake Dolce & Gabbanas with encrusted faux-diamond arms, I noticed a large object over my left shoulder hanging from the booth behind me. A gun. Holy shit, guns? It couldn’t be real. Could it?
"I guess the sunglasses are in the shady department with the porn and guns," Erik snickered to himself.
The rain picked up. Huge drops began to plummet us. Time stops in Thailand when it rains; traffic pulls over, businesses close up, electricity fades in an out. Everyone at the market hurriedly covered their wares with plastic sheets and sought cover. People on motorbikes pulled off the road nearby to seek shelter underneath a building's overhang. The rain soon became a downpour. Lightning illuminated the market and a moment later the sky cracked open with the sound of a whip.
We stopped along an outer street, out of the throngs of the center market, under an awning to plan our next move. The storefront displayed large gold necklaces with cloudy green jewels. Inside the store, on top of one of the glass jewelry cases filled with yellow-gold sparkles on red silk, knelt a small Thai girl.
Her hair was tied back haphazardly. She was delicately shaking out puffs of powder and rubbing it on her skin. Several Thai women, relatives perhaps, sat around the cases talking. But this little girl, atop the gleaming case of jewelry, applied white powder on her face like a Renaissance courtesan. She had a seriousness and grace about her. She caught my eye and held it as she daintily shook more out into her tiny, upturned palm. She didn't smile, but she didn't grimace either. She just held my eye as she continued smoothing out the powder, turning her skin a ghostly white.
Everything stopped. The sound of my breathing and her eyes were all there was. She was like a pearl, a gem among the shining brilliance of the room. Was she for sale? Was she on display, or just an ordinary kid who just happened to like sitting on jewelry cases instead of the floor?
There was something so innocent, but also perverse in this act. I couldn't help thinking of all the girls involved with the sex trade here, kidnapped or bred into the life of a whore. I became enchanted with this girl, hoping that she wasn't one, but at the same time imagining she was. There was a kind of withdrawal in her eye, an absence. Maybe she was just mechanically powdering as if brushing her teeth; an act so ordinary it was boring and she dissolved into herself while doing it. Why didn't her family notice her?
It was dark and grey, drizzling outside, but this store was like a warm fire with all its radiant, lush colors.
My mind was snapped away by a jolt of lightning reflecting on the glass, a crack of thunder and of the pounding rain. We had a train to catch.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Heaven, heaven is a place...where nothing, nothing really matters... Talking Heads
The Talking Heads song, Heaven runs through my head as I listen to the repitition of the tides touching the white sand. It is quite different from the hustle and bustle of Phuket Town. The constant whirring of motorbikes and incessant honking of horns seemed to have missed the island of Ko Samui. Oh, they're here all right, but not on the same scale as my former residence.
I was picked up, blery-eyed and exhausted from the airport by Erik. I stood at the baggage claim amongst Farang travelers and a group of boisterous young (dare I say) hooligans. Their tousled hair and foul language echoeing throughout the plane and now the terminal. "Are you guys going to the Full Moon party?"
"Yeah, fuck we are." they hooted to each other. I wasn't sure if there was going to be belly bumps-Friar Tuck style- or just high-fives. Turns out they just kind of shoved each other around a bit. "Are you?"
"Yeah. See you there." Nice chaps. I was watching for my bag while scanning the airport for Erik. It was as if he was a figment of my imagination, an old memory on replay, as he walked towards me. I may have rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Was it really him?
We crusie around this island on his silver bullet of a motorbike. I, with my pink helmet and rockets blasting on the side and he, with his red domed cap helmet. The sun shines down on us in blessing as we venture into uncharted territories. We have covered this island, circumvated it, and tomorrow we will criss-cross it.
The only bad thing was the alien I had in my stomach for a few days. I was Sigorny Weaver, hunched over in agony, begging the little bugger to move on or just take me down. It was the oddest thing. Was it the damn noodle house I went to for lunch? That tea, God! The tea! I drank the whole thing. Or was it something more serious? An implanted viral insect burrowing into my guts and turning everything to mush. Everything hurt. My stomach erupted at random moments bending me in half and making me curse to the sickness gods to make it all stop for Christ's sake. My kidneys ached with a dull pain, my shoulder was sore and my head began to be its own construction site.
"Erik, what's wrong with me?"
"Here, drink this. It'll make you feel better. I had the same thing." He said as he handed me what looked like a glass of dark orange urine.
"What is it?"
"Drink it." I took a swig of the liquid as he eyed me, making sure that I finished every last drop. It tasted like warm iodine and salt. Bitter, but sweet and revoltingly salty.
"Ugh, God! What was that?" I moaned. He laughed at me as I lay fetus position on the corner of the bed making faces to change the taste in my mouth.
"It's good for you. Electrolyte stuff. It was recommended to me."
swell, I'd try anything at this point. I tossed and turned throughout the night in an inferno of chills and soaking my pillow. I had half dreams of going to the pharmacy (where you go if your sick. They are basically doctors for non-emergencies) given some miracle pill and doing cartwheels down the street in celebration of being released from the grips of death.
As time wore on, it lifted like the hood of the grim reeper and I was restored side-kick Molly. It was amazing. I really have never felt so out of control of my own body. I can usually ignore things, eat them off, or deal (sometimes whiskey helps), but this, I tried it all and it just wanted to hang around. One more day and I would have sought help. One more.
Now, back to myself, things are much more enjoyable. We moved to a bungalow on the beach and roll off of our porch and into the ocean. A lovely restaurant and Thai family accompany the rental of our little hut and the children squeal and bring things on platters to us. It's nice to be back.
I was picked up, blery-eyed and exhausted from the airport by Erik. I stood at the baggage claim amongst Farang travelers and a group of boisterous young (dare I say) hooligans. Their tousled hair and foul language echoeing throughout the plane and now the terminal. "Are you guys going to the Full Moon party?"
"Yeah, fuck we are." they hooted to each other. I wasn't sure if there was going to be belly bumps-Friar Tuck style- or just high-fives. Turns out they just kind of shoved each other around a bit. "Are you?"
"Yeah. See you there." Nice chaps. I was watching for my bag while scanning the airport for Erik. It was as if he was a figment of my imagination, an old memory on replay, as he walked towards me. I may have rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Was it really him?
We crusie around this island on his silver bullet of a motorbike. I, with my pink helmet and rockets blasting on the side and he, with his red domed cap helmet. The sun shines down on us in blessing as we venture into uncharted territories. We have covered this island, circumvated it, and tomorrow we will criss-cross it.
The only bad thing was the alien I had in my stomach for a few days. I was Sigorny Weaver, hunched over in agony, begging the little bugger to move on or just take me down. It was the oddest thing. Was it the damn noodle house I went to for lunch? That tea, God! The tea! I drank the whole thing. Or was it something more serious? An implanted viral insect burrowing into my guts and turning everything to mush. Everything hurt. My stomach erupted at random moments bending me in half and making me curse to the sickness gods to make it all stop for Christ's sake. My kidneys ached with a dull pain, my shoulder was sore and my head began to be its own construction site.
"Erik, what's wrong with me?"
"Here, drink this. It'll make you feel better. I had the same thing." He said as he handed me what looked like a glass of dark orange urine.
"What is it?"
"Drink it." I took a swig of the liquid as he eyed me, making sure that I finished every last drop. It tasted like warm iodine and salt. Bitter, but sweet and revoltingly salty.
"Ugh, God! What was that?" I moaned. He laughed at me as I lay fetus position on the corner of the bed making faces to change the taste in my mouth.
"It's good for you. Electrolyte stuff. It was recommended to me."
swell, I'd try anything at this point. I tossed and turned throughout the night in an inferno of chills and soaking my pillow. I had half dreams of going to the pharmacy (where you go if your sick. They are basically doctors for non-emergencies) given some miracle pill and doing cartwheels down the street in celebration of being released from the grips of death.
As time wore on, it lifted like the hood of the grim reeper and I was restored side-kick Molly. It was amazing. I really have never felt so out of control of my own body. I can usually ignore things, eat them off, or deal (sometimes whiskey helps), but this, I tried it all and it just wanted to hang around. One more day and I would have sought help. One more.
Now, back to myself, things are much more enjoyable. We moved to a bungalow on the beach and roll off of our porch and into the ocean. A lovely restaurant and Thai family accompany the rental of our little hut and the children squeal and bring things on platters to us. It's nice to be back.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Bona-Fide
Yessirree folks. I'm a certified TESOL teacher. I'm ready to break new ground in molding minds in the ways of the English language. Now, I just have to find a job. But that will come. First thing is first- more traveling. I head out of Phuket Town tomorrow to reconnect with my other half. I fly to Ko Samui and then continue on to Ko Pan Yang (spelling?) Then we'll cruise back to Bangkok and head north to Chaing Mai and everywhere inbetween and finally dropping down the Adaman coast and back to Phuket--all the while waving my certificate around!! Yippee.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Here comes the rain again....
My travel alarm clock chirped into my ear as I lay sprawled out on my twin bed, wrapped in mosquito netting. Another restless night of tossing and turning has torn my bed into shambles. As I fight my way out of the cacoon, blindly grasping for the cool, metal clock, a ray of light illuminates my room into a golden hue. At least it's going to be another beautiful day. I toss the netting and mexican inspired blankets over my head as I swing my feet to the floor, rubbing my eyes and letting out a howl of sleep before sliding the little button on my clock to 'shut the hell up.' With a yawn and a stretch of my arms over my head I pull myself up to standing, let's get this show on the road. As I do every morning, I pull open my shades in a perfected, dramatic swoop of the arms, allowing the outside sun to brighten up my room. The palm tree outside my window is birthing more coconuts and the blue sky is patchworked with clouds.
I morning-walk to my bathroom and brush my teeth with the bottle of water I keep by the sink. Perfecting the skill of limited water brushing. It begins to sound as though my neighbor is taking a shower and I think, how odd. I've never noticed hearing that before. I finish up, spitting the last glob of toothpaste down the drain while sticking my contacts into my eyes. I walk out of my bathroom groping the wall with my hand, switching off the light, and the room has gone a sort of purplish-grey, the window covered with drops of water and the palm tree outside almost bent over as if to gather her fallen children from the ground.
That's how fast it happens here. You turn around and the rain has snuck up on you. Sometimes, a fog of smokey purple wraps itself around the mountains and you can anticipate the arrival; other times you blink and it downpours. The worst was the day it shook my building. A storm we, in the States, would call a tropical storm, is a mere whisper here. Electricity went out and the wind was whipping in and out of cracks in the plaster, speaking in Thai. But within an hour, it was sunny. The frogs were singing a memoir to the rain- an orchestra of themselves, and I was able to walk to class avoiding puddles, but dry.
I morning-walk to my bathroom and brush my teeth with the bottle of water I keep by the sink. Perfecting the skill of limited water brushing. It begins to sound as though my neighbor is taking a shower and I think, how odd. I've never noticed hearing that before. I finish up, spitting the last glob of toothpaste down the drain while sticking my contacts into my eyes. I walk out of my bathroom groping the wall with my hand, switching off the light, and the room has gone a sort of purplish-grey, the window covered with drops of water and the palm tree outside almost bent over as if to gather her fallen children from the ground.
That's how fast it happens here. You turn around and the rain has snuck up on you. Sometimes, a fog of smokey purple wraps itself around the mountains and you can anticipate the arrival; other times you blink and it downpours. The worst was the day it shook my building. A storm we, in the States, would call a tropical storm, is a mere whisper here. Electricity went out and the wind was whipping in and out of cracks in the plaster, speaking in Thai. But within an hour, it was sunny. The frogs were singing a memoir to the rain- an orchestra of themselves, and I was able to walk to class avoiding puddles, but dry.
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