So it's been awhile, a long ass while, and I apologize. But he, we're studying abroad damnit, and updating a blog's not high on my priorities. Plus, internet's not always easy to get. Anywhoo, we've been to Vietnam for three weeks, and are now in Cambodia.
A couple days ago we toured an old Khmer Rouge prison that was once a high school. The man who ran it is the first of 5 or 6 Khmer Rouge higher ups who are finally being brought to International Crimes Court here in Cambodia. Today, we actually got to go into the courtroom and watch the opening statements. This experience was wholly unexplainable, but below is a video from CNN talking about both the trial and the prison.
3.31.2009
2.13.2009
When in Thailand...
So if you were to ask anyone, anyone at all, what the one thing to do in Thailand is, they would all undoubtedly say the same thing.
Brothel.
Now fear not, this bar/brothel, somewhat hilariously known as The Can Do bar, specializes in empowering sex workers. So we weren't dealing with the scummy prostitutes you're probably used to (the mid-forties, skin tight leopard patterned pants, the race between the chest and the midriff to see which can sag to the knees first, the singed nose hairs). These were proud prostitutes, who do fantastic things for their society. But my story is not of them.
Our professor had brought us to this bar earlier in the week so we could get a sense for the good work they were doing. After the fantastic meeting, we decided that we needed to support their cause. Seeing as their main source of income came from two things, we had a choice to make. We needed to become their customers, either sexually or alcoholically. Our instincts and our morals decided on the latter.
As such, we disbanded from our evening class in need of a drink or many. This, we decided, was our opportunity to give back to those who had...this statement can only go poorly.
We attempted to find the 17 year old chap, a relative of our evening class' professor, in order to invite him to accompany us to this brothel. He, unfortunately, was nowhere to be found.
Nine of us on the curb (teehee), we flagged down a Song Tau and immediately realized we had no idea where our brothel was located. One of us decided, after multiple attempts at naming landmarks around the Can Do Bar (who wants to tell the middle aged Thai gent driving you that the nine of you would like to hit up the brothel), we decided to look it up on the internets. Our destination acquired, we were off.
Approaching our destination, we were met with the frightful fact that the bar, though open, was entirely empty. How could this be? we wondered. Is this not a place in which two of mankind's favorite joys can be purchased almost simultaneously? For shame humanity, for shame. So we walked in anyway.
One of the women recognized us and proceeded to hand over even worse news. Not only were we the only party, but, though the alcohol was readily available, cocktail mixers were missing. As such, it was shots, mixed drinks, or beer. I, then, opted for the large bottle of Chiang Beer.
Now what's important to know here is that Chiang Beer has a high alcohol level for a beer, and that the large is, well, quite large.
After mopping the floor with the competition in pool, and after downing my bottle of Chiang, I was both confident, and at the amazingly silly phase of buzzed-ness. We made plans at this point to vacate our current position and head to another night spot for dancing and more boozing. Waiting for my friend to pay their tabs, and having drank a beer, I noticed a pack of cigarettes on the table. Now I'm not an avid smoker, but I must admit, the two go well together. However, this pack was not mine, and I knew not who it belonged to. That’s when the kleptomaniac in me crept out. I slyly snagged a cigarette, and knowing that the best thing to do post-theft is to leave the scene of the crime, I made my way towards the door.
In a euphoric moment of decision making, I chose to jump down the one stair out of the bar. When my sandals rejoined the tile flooring, they refused to land firmly, but rather to shoot out from under me, causing the remainder of my body to crash, ungracefully, onto the ground. Laying there, I could only think to myself: Great, I went to a brothel and ended up on my back.
It wasn't until later that I broke my littlest toe.
Brothel.
Now fear not, this bar/brothel, somewhat hilariously known as The Can Do bar, specializes in empowering sex workers. So we weren't dealing with the scummy prostitutes you're probably used to (the mid-forties, skin tight leopard patterned pants, the race between the chest and the midriff to see which can sag to the knees first, the singed nose hairs). These were proud prostitutes, who do fantastic things for their society. But my story is not of them.
Our professor had brought us to this bar earlier in the week so we could get a sense for the good work they were doing. After the fantastic meeting, we decided that we needed to support their cause. Seeing as their main source of income came from two things, we had a choice to make. We needed to become their customers, either sexually or alcoholically. Our instincts and our morals decided on the latter.
As such, we disbanded from our evening class in need of a drink or many. This, we decided, was our opportunity to give back to those who had...this statement can only go poorly.
We attempted to find the 17 year old chap, a relative of our evening class' professor, in order to invite him to accompany us to this brothel. He, unfortunately, was nowhere to be found.
Nine of us on the curb (teehee), we flagged down a Song Tau and immediately realized we had no idea where our brothel was located. One of us decided, after multiple attempts at naming landmarks around the Can Do Bar (who wants to tell the middle aged Thai gent driving you that the nine of you would like to hit up the brothel), we decided to look it up on the internets. Our destination acquired, we were off.
Approaching our destination, we were met with the frightful fact that the bar, though open, was entirely empty. How could this be? we wondered. Is this not a place in which two of mankind's favorite joys can be purchased almost simultaneously? For shame humanity, for shame. So we walked in anyway.
One of the women recognized us and proceeded to hand over even worse news. Not only were we the only party, but, though the alcohol was readily available, cocktail mixers were missing. As such, it was shots, mixed drinks, or beer. I, then, opted for the large bottle of Chiang Beer.
Now what's important to know here is that Chiang Beer has a high alcohol level for a beer, and that the large is, well, quite large.
After mopping the floor with the competition in pool, and after downing my bottle of Chiang, I was both confident, and at the amazingly silly phase of buzzed-ness. We made plans at this point to vacate our current position and head to another night spot for dancing and more boozing. Waiting for my friend to pay their tabs, and having drank a beer, I noticed a pack of cigarettes on the table. Now I'm not an avid smoker, but I must admit, the two go well together. However, this pack was not mine, and I knew not who it belonged to. That’s when the kleptomaniac in me crept out. I slyly snagged a cigarette, and knowing that the best thing to do post-theft is to leave the scene of the crime, I made my way towards the door.
In a euphoric moment of decision making, I chose to jump down the one stair out of the bar. When my sandals rejoined the tile flooring, they refused to land firmly, but rather to shoot out from under me, causing the remainder of my body to crash, ungracefully, onto the ground. Laying there, I could only think to myself: Great, I went to a brothel and ended up on my back.
It wasn't until later that I broke my littlest toe.
2.08.2009
"Ooh that looks pretty- Fuckin Shit!?"
The above are words that this writer ended up yelling in the middle of a Thai forest, whilst on top of an elephant that decided it would be fun to go down a hill substantially steeper than I would allow such a beast to take while carrying people...
...that's right, on top of an elephant.
Yesterday, our group made tracks to the Mae Sae Elephant Camp outside of Chiang Mai. And by "outside of" I mean an hour's drive through some city, some country, and then up a mountain. And when we arrived there, we got exactly what the name promised: boatloads and shit-tons of elephants.
While the main reason our group had been brought had to this wondrous place (besides the fact that elephants are inherently awesome and that we are suckers for tourist traps) was that there was a show we could see involving elephants showcasing their various skills, namely rolling giant logs with their heads, placing hats on people, kicking giant soccer balls into goals, and painting, there was something else that caught mine and gringo's eye: a ticket booth for buying a ride on an elephant.
The ticket itself cost 800 baht, split two ways (between gringo and myself), thus coming to a grand total of 400 baht each, which translates to about 13 dollars American. Despite this horrendously cheap price for riding a great beast, the ticket has claimed the rank of "Most expesive thing I have bought in Thailand". That should just put into perspective how inexpensive things are here, and how much coming back to America with all it's fancy expensive whatnot is going to suck.
As we approached the loading area, one of the trainers waiting to take tickets yelled something to the people bringing the elephants something about us "farang". What we assume they said was something commenting on the size of gringo, as the elephant waiting to bear us away was taken off somewhere and replaced by the biggest, meanest, tusk-iest, elephant I had ever seen.
I named him "Mr. Peanut"
And so we were off. We were locked into the seat and the trainer atop the elephant's head went about trying to get the paciderm up the hill and on to the trail. But Mr. Peanut didn't move. He mumbled something in elephant (which might have been anti-semitic, I can't be sure) and essentially refused to move. Thus, the trainer went about pulling at the beast's ears and whacking it with a stick, and every once in a while looking back to give us an encouraging smile. It was after about five or som minutes of yelling profanities at the animal that the trainer finally got a response out of it and we made our way up the path, with both of its riders wondering if this was really such a good idea.
About halfway through the trek, the trainer pulled the elephant off to the side of the path, turned around, and asked "photo?" We took that to mean we should take a picture of him and did so. But when he shook his head and put his hand out, we got the idea that we had been mistaken. He ended up taking gringo's camera and then proceeded to leave the elephant. So there we were: atop an ornery animal that weighed a good deal more than anything we were equipped to deal with, with our trainer and guide gone, presumably having stolen gringo's Canon. Turns out this was not the case, and after a few shots, he was safely back with us, and we continued our trip.
An elephant is not an easy thing to ride. They are jerky beasts and sitting where we were sometimes felt more like a amusement park ride than a relaxing trip through the woods. Whenever we went down hills, we would slide forward, held in place by only a slim metal bar and our will to not be stomped by an elephant we had fallen off of. When we got close to edges of ravines, I would wonder if it would be possible to escape should the elephant try to roll down the hill. And when Mr. Peanut decided that he wanted to go into the river, whether the trainer liked it or nor, I asked myself if I had made peace with a higher power yet. Luckily, the elephant decided that it was, in fact, not a good day to die, and we escaped with our lives and dryness intact.
And thus ended our journey with an elephant. We laughed, we cried (in fear), and we even got a few good shots for our photo albums. So, all in all, a good experience to be had by all.
That is, until an elephant tried to steal my wallet.
...that's right, on top of an elephant.
Yesterday, our group made tracks to the Mae Sae Elephant Camp outside of Chiang Mai. And by "outside of" I mean an hour's drive through some city, some country, and then up a mountain. And when we arrived there, we got exactly what the name promised: boatloads and shit-tons of elephants.
While the main reason our group had been brought had to this wondrous place (besides the fact that elephants are inherently awesome and that we are suckers for tourist traps) was that there was a show we could see involving elephants showcasing their various skills, namely rolling giant logs with their heads, placing hats on people, kicking giant soccer balls into goals, and painting, there was something else that caught mine and gringo's eye: a ticket booth for buying a ride on an elephant.
The ticket itself cost 800 baht, split two ways (between gringo and myself), thus coming to a grand total of 400 baht each, which translates to about 13 dollars American. Despite this horrendously cheap price for riding a great beast, the ticket has claimed the rank of "Most expesive thing I have bought in Thailand". That should just put into perspective how inexpensive things are here, and how much coming back to America with all it's fancy expensive whatnot is going to suck.
As we approached the loading area, one of the trainers waiting to take tickets yelled something to the people bringing the elephants something about us "farang". What we assume they said was something commenting on the size of gringo, as the elephant waiting to bear us away was taken off somewhere and replaced by the biggest, meanest, tusk-iest, elephant I had ever seen.
I named him "Mr. Peanut"
And so we were off. We were locked into the seat and the trainer atop the elephant's head went about trying to get the paciderm up the hill and on to the trail. But Mr. Peanut didn't move. He mumbled something in elephant (which might have been anti-semitic, I can't be sure) and essentially refused to move. Thus, the trainer went about pulling at the beast's ears and whacking it with a stick, and every once in a while looking back to give us an encouraging smile. It was after about five or som minutes of yelling profanities at the animal that the trainer finally got a response out of it and we made our way up the path, with both of its riders wondering if this was really such a good idea.
About halfway through the trek, the trainer pulled the elephant off to the side of the path, turned around, and asked "photo?" We took that to mean we should take a picture of him and did so. But when he shook his head and put his hand out, we got the idea that we had been mistaken. He ended up taking gringo's camera and then proceeded to leave the elephant. So there we were: atop an ornery animal that weighed a good deal more than anything we were equipped to deal with, with our trainer and guide gone, presumably having stolen gringo's Canon. Turns out this was not the case, and after a few shots, he was safely back with us, and we continued our trip.
An elephant is not an easy thing to ride. They are jerky beasts and sitting where we were sometimes felt more like a amusement park ride than a relaxing trip through the woods. Whenever we went down hills, we would slide forward, held in place by only a slim metal bar and our will to not be stomped by an elephant we had fallen off of. When we got close to edges of ravines, I would wonder if it would be possible to escape should the elephant try to roll down the hill. And when Mr. Peanut decided that he wanted to go into the river, whether the trainer liked it or nor, I asked myself if I had made peace with a higher power yet. Luckily, the elephant decided that it was, in fact, not a good day to die, and we escaped with our lives and dryness intact.
And thus ended our journey with an elephant. We laughed, we cried (in fear), and we even got a few good shots for our photo albums. So, all in all, a good experience to be had by all.
That is, until an elephant tried to steal my wallet.
2.06.2009
"Culture" Shock
It's nearing finals time for students here at Chiang Mai University. In super rad fashion, many of these students have compiled their learnings into half hour presentations that are shown for the public. Never ones to decline entertainment, especially educational entertainment, we decided to attend as many of these as possible.
Wednesday's scheduled performances were a concert of adapted Bob Dylan songs that supposedly had meaning for the contemporary Thai student and a musical presentation on Black culture. High hopes were abundant.
I entered the courtyard for the Dylan concert, excited to see a little taste of Minnesota all the way over here in Thailand. We were given adorably classy little programs that included the lyrics to the four songs the group had adapted. Kicking it off with "Times They Are a-Changin'," pronounced "shanshing" in a pseudo-stereotypical but wholly humorous way, the group gave the legend a bit of a alt-rock kick. There were a trio of guest lead vocalists to provide the spotlighted lyrics, and the first fellow did well. Second up was a duet with the first guy and a lady. Singing "Blowing in the Wind," it was, well, fine. Until the lead guitarist/presentation leader announced that they had picked the song because of its message of racial equality. This was the first of my many "huh?" moments of the night. Sure, "Blowing" is an anti-war song, but does that make it pro-racial equality? I am unconvinced.
The third song was the classic "Like a Rolling Stone," of course said as "roaring stone." I'm sorry, but it was funny. Another duet, this one featured the same female with a gent dressed in a tight white jumpsuit like outfit, topped with a popped polo collar. Sporting one black bicycle glove and a pair of goggles around his neck, not to forget his shimmering silver slip-ons, this guy was quite the site. Here's where the train started to slip a bit. Those familiar with "Like a Rolling Stone" know the chorus is fairly monotone, which works fine for Dylan's trademark wail, but doesn't do a lot for a 19 year old girl trying to show off her vocal range. Her repeated near misses (more like near hits) of the notes made it hard to avoid cringing a bit. I tried to maintain a smile for her, but it was challenging. They closed with "All Along The Watchtower," done, like Dylan does now, in the style of Hendrix. Sung by Mr. Big Red and accompanied by a professor named Wayne, the song was done well.
This meant it was time for the Black culture presentation. We worked our way over to the auditorium hosting the event and took our seats. The stage was decorated with printed off pictures of, well, famous people. That was the only correlation I could find. Faces ranged from Bush to John Lennon to Che (I hate Che) to Ray Charles to Charlie Chaplin. Go figure. The show started with a woman talking about things I honestly couldn't really understand, but I did catch the word “slavery.” Then three Thai males walked on stage and sat at their instruments (keyboard, bass, and percussion). They were followed by a tall Thai male. He proceeded to make lewd comments about the woman. This was followed by him rapping the song “I Wanna Fuck You” by Snoop Dogg and Akon. His rapping was accompanied by the video for the song being played, off of YouTube on the projection screen, a video chock full of scantily clad women. That’s right, we went from slavery to Akon in about 2 minutes.
When the woman stormed off stage, he proceeded to sing, I believe, another Akon track, again accompanied by the video. He then needed to sing a love song (and something, you know, that hasn’t come out in the last three years), so it was time for “Georgia On My Mind.” He sang it fairly well, the dude had a good voice, but when it ended he said, and I quote, “That song left us with one thing: equality.”
WHAT?!
His sweetness of course caused the girl to return and agree to duet with him, which I guess was suppose to show us that African Americans can be misogynistic as long as they also sing love songs, about equality, about 1/4th of the time. Their closing duet was called “Love is Colorblind” and was boring. Then it was time for Mr. Rapper/Apparent Black Culture Guru to talk about how his presentation was ACTUALLY about racial equality. He explained that, because all the faces on the stage were printed on different colored paper, it showed that we can still recognize people regardless of their race (including the quote “Mao Zadong’s still Mao even though he’s in yellow,” which I thought was a poor choice).
SO
In order to show us that we’re all the same, he sang us songs by African-Americans. Three of four of which were about girls (or equality, according to him). Huh.
Tonight’s presentation is “Phantom of the Opera.” Who’s excited? This guy.
Wednesday's scheduled performances were a concert of adapted Bob Dylan songs that supposedly had meaning for the contemporary Thai student and a musical presentation on Black culture. High hopes were abundant.
I entered the courtyard for the Dylan concert, excited to see a little taste of Minnesota all the way over here in Thailand. We were given adorably classy little programs that included the lyrics to the four songs the group had adapted. Kicking it off with "Times They Are a-Changin'," pronounced "shanshing" in a pseudo-stereotypical but wholly humorous way, the group gave the legend a bit of a alt-rock kick. There were a trio of guest lead vocalists to provide the spotlighted lyrics, and the first fellow did well. Second up was a duet with the first guy and a lady. Singing "Blowing in the Wind," it was, well, fine. Until the lead guitarist/presentation leader announced that they had picked the song because of its message of racial equality. This was the first of my many "huh?" moments of the night. Sure, "Blowing" is an anti-war song, but does that make it pro-racial equality? I am unconvinced.
The third song was the classic "Like a Rolling Stone," of course said as "roaring stone." I'm sorry, but it was funny. Another duet, this one featured the same female with a gent dressed in a tight white jumpsuit like outfit, topped with a popped polo collar. Sporting one black bicycle glove and a pair of goggles around his neck, not to forget his shimmering silver slip-ons, this guy was quite the site. Here's where the train started to slip a bit. Those familiar with "Like a Rolling Stone" know the chorus is fairly monotone, which works fine for Dylan's trademark wail, but doesn't do a lot for a 19 year old girl trying to show off her vocal range. Her repeated near misses (more like near hits) of the notes made it hard to avoid cringing a bit. I tried to maintain a smile for her, but it was challenging. They closed with "All Along The Watchtower," done, like Dylan does now, in the style of Hendrix. Sung by Mr. Big Red and accompanied by a professor named Wayne, the song was done well.
This meant it was time for the Black culture presentation. We worked our way over to the auditorium hosting the event and took our seats. The stage was decorated with printed off pictures of, well, famous people. That was the only correlation I could find. Faces ranged from Bush to John Lennon to Che (I hate Che) to Ray Charles to Charlie Chaplin. Go figure. The show started with a woman talking about things I honestly couldn't really understand, but I did catch the word “slavery.” Then three Thai males walked on stage and sat at their instruments (keyboard, bass, and percussion). They were followed by a tall Thai male. He proceeded to make lewd comments about the woman. This was followed by him rapping the song “I Wanna Fuck You” by Snoop Dogg and Akon. His rapping was accompanied by the video for the song being played, off of YouTube on the projection screen, a video chock full of scantily clad women. That’s right, we went from slavery to Akon in about 2 minutes.
When the woman stormed off stage, he proceeded to sing, I believe, another Akon track, again accompanied by the video. He then needed to sing a love song (and something, you know, that hasn’t come out in the last three years), so it was time for “Georgia On My Mind.” He sang it fairly well, the dude had a good voice, but when it ended he said, and I quote, “That song left us with one thing: equality.”
WHAT?!
His sweetness of course caused the girl to return and agree to duet with him, which I guess was suppose to show us that African Americans can be misogynistic as long as they also sing love songs, about equality, about 1/4th of the time. Their closing duet was called “Love is Colorblind” and was boring. Then it was time for Mr. Rapper/Apparent Black Culture Guru to talk about how his presentation was ACTUALLY about racial equality. He explained that, because all the faces on the stage were printed on different colored paper, it showed that we can still recognize people regardless of their race (including the quote “Mao Zadong’s still Mao even though he’s in yellow,” which I thought was a poor choice).
SO
In order to show us that we’re all the same, he sang us songs by African-Americans. Three of four of which were about girls (or equality, according to him). Huh.
Tonight’s presentation is “Phantom of the Opera.” Who’s excited? This guy.
2.01.2009
His Name Is Ice Cream
Well, things are finally getting settled in here. TinMan and I had our first two volunteer days this past week. We're working at a place called Starfish Home, which is a sort of daycare/orphanage/school for children from the surrounding Hilltribes. Essentially, we help them practice English on a worksheet for about fifteen or twenty minutes, then play a board game (mainly Snakes and Laders) using English vocab cards, then they eat. After that, we go outside and run around with them for about half an hour. Both days, TinMan and I have walked our way back to catch a ride home slowly, trying to catch our breath.
Our first day just so happened to be their outdoor barbeque dinner night. We were each put in charge of a Thai grill (essentially a bucket of coals with an pan on top that has a sort of moat around it to hold broth on top of which the grilling actually happens). We grilled everything from bacon and turkey to squid and fishballs. The kids went apeshit for the fishballs, Artit (who was seated at TinMan's grill) downed two chopstick/kababs full of fishballs in about ten minutes. Raw. He and Te (seated at my grill) each ate about two pounds of meat easily. As the regular meal ended, we could tell Artit and Te were wearing down and Ai-dtim (which means Ice Cream in English and is one kid's nickname) was still running back for more meat. That's when they brought out dessert, comprised of fresh strawberries with a little sugar sprinkled on them, sticky rice pasteries filled with red bean paste, and what tasted like sticks of Life cereal. By this time, Artit was laying down and grumbling about his stomach. Shelly (our New Zealander supervisor) offered to rub his tummy for him and, as he rose to accept her offer, stuffed another handful of strawberries into his mouth. Crazy kids.
Sidenote: Shelly's New Zealand accent instantly makes me feel like I'm watching Flight of the Conchords. Makes it really hard to take her seriously. But she's cool.
I haven't broken anything in a while.
Today we cooked Thai food on a farm. It was unanimously delicious, but there was far too much. So it goes. I have a bag of Pad Thai in my room for later. That, friends, is the way to be.
Our first day just so happened to be their outdoor barbeque dinner night. We were each put in charge of a Thai grill (essentially a bucket of coals with an pan on top that has a sort of moat around it to hold broth on top of which the grilling actually happens). We grilled everything from bacon and turkey to squid and fishballs. The kids went apeshit for the fishballs, Artit (who was seated at TinMan's grill) downed two chopstick/kababs full of fishballs in about ten minutes. Raw. He and Te (seated at my grill) each ate about two pounds of meat easily. As the regular meal ended, we could tell Artit and Te were wearing down and Ai-dtim (which means Ice Cream in English and is one kid's nickname) was still running back for more meat. That's when they brought out dessert, comprised of fresh strawberries with a little sugar sprinkled on them, sticky rice pasteries filled with red bean paste, and what tasted like sticks of Life cereal. By this time, Artit was laying down and grumbling about his stomach. Shelly (our New Zealander supervisor) offered to rub his tummy for him and, as he rose to accept her offer, stuffed another handful of strawberries into his mouth. Crazy kids.
Sidenote: Shelly's New Zealand accent instantly makes me feel like I'm watching Flight of the Conchords. Makes it really hard to take her seriously. But she's cool.
I haven't broken anything in a while.
Today we cooked Thai food on a farm. It was unanimously delicious, but there was far too much. So it goes. I have a bag of Pad Thai in my room for later. That, friends, is the way to be.
1.25.2009
I Tackled Something White, Guess What It Was
So one of the advantages to the Asian lifestyle is the convenience that comes in their bathroom planning. Whereas we in America are wasteful and feel the need to have two whole separate areas for acts such as peeing/pooing and showering, Asia says "Nay, we don't need clutter like that." So what do they do? Each bathroom in our guesthouse comes complete with a little shower head connected to hot and cold pipes. The floor includes, of course, drainage for this practice. However, regardless of the circumference of the drain or the strategic placement of your body, the result of Asia's space concerns is a pretty wet bathroom.
Now, nine tenths of the time, this isn't a problem. In fact, for a long time we used it to our advantages, allowing shower time to be synonymous with red-biting-ants-that-are-infesting-our-bathroom-killing-time. The one day we chose to attempt (read: FAIL AT) washing our own clothes pretty much saw an end to those twerps.
That one tenth of a time that the wet bathroom is a problem though, that time is a bitch. We (TinMan and I) woke up a morning or two ago to the sounds of pounding on our door. Being closest to the door, I saw it as my duty to determine who should attend to the knocking problem. As I lay sleep-deprivedly, I say to TinMan "TinMan, I'm pretty sure there's someone at the door." In his nap-needing manner, he replies "Nah, I don't think so." This is followed momentarily by another knock, to which I say, "That was definitely a knock." TinMan procedes to venture out of his bed, still clad in his drawers and wife beater (a manly set of PJs I must say), and pull the door as open as the tiny chain lock allows it. Hiding behind the door, sticking his head into the gap, and my sleepy feet in full view to whoever lurked beyond the wooden seperator, TinMan discussed the fact that he did not, matter of fact, know the location of one of our travelers. He closed the door and, noticing that our alarm was to go off any moment now, decided to shower.
I laid around while he cleansed his outer body (his soul remaining as dirty as ever) and decided, upon his emergence from his water capsule, that I should get some dirty laundry together in order to have it cleaned. Quickly after sitting up for the first time, it came to my attention that peeing was a must. I bolted (being my first mistake) into our drenched (the forgetting of which being my second mistake) bathroom to relieve my obviously pregnant blatter.
Entering the water closet is when things went south. Literally. Quite literally actually, assuming you consider south to be synonomous with down. Because my first step into the washroom decided that stability was unnecessary and rather sent my feet sliding forward, my ass backwards, and the rest of my body metaphorically south. On my way down, I did what most in said scenario do, I reached out for things to slow my fall. In this case, that was embodied by the sink to my right. After it failed at preventing the fall, I landed, hard, and looked to my right to notice that the sink, once somewhat firmly attached to our wall, was sitting next to me on the ground.
For the first moment, I experienced little but shock at the whole event. The second moment included savage fear that the room would start to fill with water from the unhinged sink. The third moment was figuring out how to reattach the sink as nonchalantly as possible. TinMan questioned my wellness, to which I assured him that I was still in one piece. After hooking the sink back onto the wall (because indeed that was all keeping it up in the first place), I proceeded to adjust the toilet seat I had kicked off the toilet in my tumble. Then I peed. It was great.
After the ensuing shower that I felt I deserved, my eyes found the gigantic crack that had grown in our sink. Assuming no responsibilty whatsoever, I refused to believe it was from the earlier events. I tried using said sink, only to be met with an amount of water on the floor that rivaled that that came out of the shower moments earlier.
It wasn't until later that I found the gash on my foot.
They fixed our sink today, at no charge to us. Rad.
Now, nine tenths of the time, this isn't a problem. In fact, for a long time we used it to our advantages, allowing shower time to be synonymous with red-biting-ants-that-are-infesting-our-bathroom-killing-time. The one day we chose to attempt (read: FAIL AT) washing our own clothes pretty much saw an end to those twerps.
That one tenth of a time that the wet bathroom is a problem though, that time is a bitch. We (TinMan and I) woke up a morning or two ago to the sounds of pounding on our door. Being closest to the door, I saw it as my duty to determine who should attend to the knocking problem. As I lay sleep-deprivedly, I say to TinMan "TinMan, I'm pretty sure there's someone at the door." In his nap-needing manner, he replies "Nah, I don't think so." This is followed momentarily by another knock, to which I say, "That was definitely a knock." TinMan procedes to venture out of his bed, still clad in his drawers and wife beater (a manly set of PJs I must say), and pull the door as open as the tiny chain lock allows it. Hiding behind the door, sticking his head into the gap, and my sleepy feet in full view to whoever lurked beyond the wooden seperator, TinMan discussed the fact that he did not, matter of fact, know the location of one of our travelers. He closed the door and, noticing that our alarm was to go off any moment now, decided to shower.
I laid around while he cleansed his outer body (his soul remaining as dirty as ever) and decided, upon his emergence from his water capsule, that I should get some dirty laundry together in order to have it cleaned. Quickly after sitting up for the first time, it came to my attention that peeing was a must. I bolted (being my first mistake) into our drenched (the forgetting of which being my second mistake) bathroom to relieve my obviously pregnant blatter.
Entering the water closet is when things went south. Literally. Quite literally actually, assuming you consider south to be synonomous with down. Because my first step into the washroom decided that stability was unnecessary and rather sent my feet sliding forward, my ass backwards, and the rest of my body metaphorically south. On my way down, I did what most in said scenario do, I reached out for things to slow my fall. In this case, that was embodied by the sink to my right. After it failed at preventing the fall, I landed, hard, and looked to my right to notice that the sink, once somewhat firmly attached to our wall, was sitting next to me on the ground.
For the first moment, I experienced little but shock at the whole event. The second moment included savage fear that the room would start to fill with water from the unhinged sink. The third moment was figuring out how to reattach the sink as nonchalantly as possible. TinMan questioned my wellness, to which I assured him that I was still in one piece. After hooking the sink back onto the wall (because indeed that was all keeping it up in the first place), I proceeded to adjust the toilet seat I had kicked off the toilet in my tumble. Then I peed. It was great.
After the ensuing shower that I felt I deserved, my eyes found the gigantic crack that had grown in our sink. Assuming no responsibilty whatsoever, I refused to believe it was from the earlier events. I tried using said sink, only to be met with an amount of water on the floor that rivaled that that came out of the shower moments earlier.
It wasn't until later that I found the gash on my foot.
They fixed our sink today, at no charge to us. Rad.
1.22.2009
Farang Relations
In case you were wondering, "farang" is the Thai word for foreigner. You should probably know that before you continue to read this story:
During our stay in Chiang Mai, we are expected to attend a class on the Thai language. This, of course is a handy skill to have in a foreign country, so I have no complaint. However, I have to sometimes wonder if the teachers who are giving us our lessons have any clue as to what they are making us do:
Over the past few days, we have been learning the basics of the Thai language, such as how to introduce ourselves, give information about our whereabouts, and how to say we are hungry and should go to the cafeteria. We have also learned how to ask for that information from other people. Up until yesterday, we had practiced our Thai on our fellow classmates, thus saving us the embarassment of having to butcher someone's language in front of them. we practiced by the a-jaan (teacher) giving us a small sheet of paper for us to fill up with the information pertaining to our fellow students, with slots for name, last name, nickname, and something concerning where they are from. Easy, right? Well yesterday, the teacher announced that we would be going outside for part of class. Seeing as the weather is beautiful here (75 and sunny), we had no complaint. That is, until she handed a full sheet of paper with more slots than could be filled by our class. That's right, we had to go talk to actual Thai students.
Now this might seem like a good idea. Who better to practice with than someone who speaks the language, right? Well that would work if the students knew we were coming. So the teacher led us to a group sitting in a study hall, where most of which were working on their homework and such, and let us loose. She also hadn't told us the phrase in Thai to explain that we were asking these questions for a class assignment, so these students had to deal with a bunch of farang showing up out of nowhere and asking the following questions without ay sort of introduction:
What is your name?
What is your last name?
What is your nickname?
What Province are you from?
and (my favorite) Where are you staying?
You should also know that after they gave each answer, we would quickly write it down on a sheet of paper, which I'm sure helped us look a lot less sketchy.
Being that they had no idea who we were, most of the students were generally helpful when it came to answering the questions. When they would tell us their name, only to be met with a blank stare, they would laugh and save us the trouble of trying to spell it out. But when it came to the last question, most would give us a weird look and say something indecipherable. Some would give us numbers (which might have been in referece to the dorms, I can't be sure), others would tell us random words like "Ho-ha" or "Moshi", and another student stold us outright that she would not tell us. She also gave us the last name "Gitaway" which gringo and I believe is probably not her real name.
I'm not sure what the point of this assignment was, other than to embarass us in front of a decently sized group of Thai students. Or maybe the lesson was that if you are a white student at a Thai university that can barely speak the language and have to constantly write stuff on a sheet of paper, you can pry all sorts of important information from unsuspecting Thai people.
Though if that's a good thing, I'm not so sure.
During our stay in Chiang Mai, we are expected to attend a class on the Thai language. This, of course is a handy skill to have in a foreign country, so I have no complaint. However, I have to sometimes wonder if the teachers who are giving us our lessons have any clue as to what they are making us do:
Over the past few days, we have been learning the basics of the Thai language, such as how to introduce ourselves, give information about our whereabouts, and how to say we are hungry and should go to the cafeteria. We have also learned how to ask for that information from other people. Up until yesterday, we had practiced our Thai on our fellow classmates, thus saving us the embarassment of having to butcher someone's language in front of them. we practiced by the a-jaan (teacher) giving us a small sheet of paper for us to fill up with the information pertaining to our fellow students, with slots for name, last name, nickname, and something concerning where they are from. Easy, right? Well yesterday, the teacher announced that we would be going outside for part of class. Seeing as the weather is beautiful here (75 and sunny), we had no complaint. That is, until she handed a full sheet of paper with more slots than could be filled by our class. That's right, we had to go talk to actual Thai students.
Now this might seem like a good idea. Who better to practice with than someone who speaks the language, right? Well that would work if the students knew we were coming. So the teacher led us to a group sitting in a study hall, where most of which were working on their homework and such, and let us loose. She also hadn't told us the phrase in Thai to explain that we were asking these questions for a class assignment, so these students had to deal with a bunch of farang showing up out of nowhere and asking the following questions without ay sort of introduction:
What is your name?
What is your last name?
What is your nickname?
What Province are you from?
and (my favorite) Where are you staying?
You should also know that after they gave each answer, we would quickly write it down on a sheet of paper, which I'm sure helped us look a lot less sketchy.
Being that they had no idea who we were, most of the students were generally helpful when it came to answering the questions. When they would tell us their name, only to be met with a blank stare, they would laugh and save us the trouble of trying to spell it out. But when it came to the last question, most would give us a weird look and say something indecipherable. Some would give us numbers (which might have been in referece to the dorms, I can't be sure), others would tell us random words like "Ho-ha" or "Moshi", and another student stold us outright that she would not tell us. She also gave us the last name "Gitaway" which gringo and I believe is probably not her real name.
I'm not sure what the point of this assignment was, other than to embarass us in front of a decently sized group of Thai students. Or maybe the lesson was that if you are a white student at a Thai university that can barely speak the language and have to constantly write stuff on a sheet of paper, you can pry all sorts of important information from unsuspecting Thai people.
Though if that's a good thing, I'm not so sure.
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