The Khon Thai Family

    I’ve spoken before about Westerners forever being outsiders in Thailand. If you are not ‘khon Thai’ you can forget ever losing the farang (or worse) label. This annoys me to a certain degree. Not because I think I should be accepted here after a mere seven months but because I think this attitude encourages rampant xenophobia at best and overt racism at worst. All this being said, the bond of ‘khon Thai’ is beautifully strong. People speak to strangers as siblings, very literally using terms of sibling endearment which are built right into the language, and Thai children receive parental love from bus attendants, street vendors, and passerbys. The most beautiful examples of the kindred bond of ‘khon Thais’ that I have witnessed happen on the skytrain. The scenario runs like this:
    A BTS officer, clad in a skin-tight and intimidating uniform, gently leads a blind man up the stairs and into a train queue. The officer allows the man, a stranger, to wrap his arm around his waist and lean into his chest for support on the trek up the stairs. As the officer leaves the man in line he pats his hands tenderly and offers a parting ‘chok dee’, ‘goodluck’ in Thai. As the train whizzes to a stop a business man reaches out to the blind mans forearm, calling him ‘Nong’ or ‘little brother’. This business man, clad in an expensive suit and designer shoes, guides the blind man onto a sardine-packed train using his own body to make enough standing room for them both. Once they are both safely aboard, he grabs the man’s hand and lifts it to the handhold above wrapping his own hand around his to ensure his grip. If you were to witness their conversation from afar you would think they were old friends. Instead, they are talking about simple things; the weather, their destinations, their children. The train comes to a halt and there is a mass exodus at a popular stop. Suddenly, the car is barely packed. A seated young woman sees the blind man and immediately stands... tapping his elbow lightly and working in tandem with the business man to ensure that the man’s sight stick doesn’t get tangled in the mid-car support poles. Once seated, the blind man offers thanks and smiles widely. At the next stop both the businessman and the young woman depart saying brief goodbyes to the seated man. We come to my stop, Saphan Khwai. The blind man stands himself up and takes barely a step before a new BTS officer glides onto the train and takes his arm. The first officer must have walkie-talkied forward and alerted the officers at this station of the man’s needs and car number. The train doors stay open longer than usual to ensure that the man is safely departed. I watch as this officer, much like the first, allows the man to wrap his arms around him on their descent down the stairs. They are chattering away like old comrades.
    I’ve seen such a scenario happen on three separate occasions and it never ceases to re-instill my faith in humanity. In a city of 12 million people, it is nothing short of a miracle that a disabled person is catered to and cared for with such compassion. I’m not sure it would happen anywhere else in the world. As much as I hate the exclusivity of the ‘khon Thai’ clan, I am in awe of their ability to drop judgement, fear, and ego to help one of their family members in need. I hope that in this small but world changing way, I will someday be ‘khon Thai’ too. 

The 'Rents Come to Thailand

   After months of anticipation and a bit of personal anxiety (i.e. Calvinist cleaning injury) my folks arrived in-country on January 21st. In preparation for their visit, I constructed a Master PDF schedule which dictated what we would do on a daily basis. This PDF went through an evolution of editing until, finally, a few days before they touched down I gave up on making it perfect and crossed my fingers in hopes of an incident-free and enjoyable visit for them.


My Biggest Fears:
--They would be bored.
--They would get ill.
--They would question why I liked Thailand so much.
--My Thai skills would miraculously vanish the night before they arrived.
--One of them would, in one of my contrived adventures, physically injure themselves.


My Best Aspirations:
--To keep them happy, well-fed and enjoying our day-day activities.
--To get them to test their limits gastronomically, physically, and mentally.
--To make them fall in love with Thailand so that when I, inevitably, return here (for vacation, my wedding or to accept a job offer) they wouldn’t cringe.


   I think we did pretty well. In the next post I’ll highlight the most humorous moments but, for now, I’ll outline our actual schedule. I successfully and continuously ran them around this country for 18 straight days. Mission Accomplished.


Day 1
--1 hour Foot Massage
--Jim Thompson 
--Bangkok Art and Culture Center (scandalous princes show)
--Pad Thai on Pradiphat Rd.

Day 2
--Birthday Blessing at Wat Soi Thong
--First Tuk Tuk Ride from Wat to River
--River Taxi to Brunch
--Royal Orchid Sheraton Buffet
--RedSky with Friends for Cocktails
--Somerset for DQ Cake with a Full Red Moon Rising

Day 3
--Mahidol Tour
--Lunch with labmates
--Golden Mount (Wat Saket)
--Ban Baht Bowl Making Community
--Ordered in Thai Food 

Day 4
--Morning Buddha Casting at Mahidol
--Grand Palace
--Temple of the Emerald Buddha
--Amulet Market
--Way Pho
--Massages on Sukimvit Soi 16
--Happy Hour Drinks at Long Table
--Dinner at The Deck with Wesley and his Mother

Day 5
--Central World
--Mad About Juice Smoothies
--Paragon Window Shopping
--Bus Ticket Acquisition
--Left on a bus for Lampang

Day 6
--Arrived in Lampang at 4:30am
--Song Teauw to Guesthouse
--Slept in
--Breakfast at Guesthouse
--Walked along river to several temples, old mansion
--Went to train station, Walked the main streets
--Dinner at Riverside Restaurant

Day 7
--Elephant Conservation Center Mahout Training Day
--Slowest Taxi in Thailand
--Mom and I got out with Dr. Nirund via horse drawn carriage to nicest restaurant in Lampang... he is such a gracious host. 

Day 8
--Leisurely Breakfast
--11am Train to Change Mai
--Taxi to Mountainview Guesthouse
--2 hour full body Thai massages
--Dinner in the street

Day 9
--Walking around Old City
--Women's Correctional Facility  restaurant for lunch
--Mom and I go to Chedi Luang
--Walking Street in the evening

Day 10
--Doi Suthep Temple
--Dad gets Acupuncture
--Mom and I get massages
--Dinner Cruise from Riverside Restaurant
--Night Bazaar

Day 11
--Mega-crazy day trip to Hot Springs, Chiang Rai, White Temple, Golden Triangle, Boat to Laos, Mae Sai, Burmese Border, Akha Village

Day 12
--Antique Shopping
--Chinatown
--Lunch at a Soi Kitchen
--Go see The Tourist
--Swensens Ice Cream for Dinner

Day 13
--Alms rounds at Kru Bah Shrine
--Breakfast at Guesthouse
--Silk Factory
--Gems Gallery Visit
--Umbrella Factory
--Packed up
--Massages
--Left for Ayutthaya
--(Horrible disco bus with no shocks, bitch hostess, highway drop off)

Day 14
--Arrive Ayutthaya 4:00 am
--Ayutthaya Tuk Tuk to Promtong Guesthouse
--Slept in, Had Breakfast
--Biked around Old City
--Temples and Gigantic Buddha
--Dinner on River

Day 15
--SACICT
--Afternoon train back to BKK
--Dinner at Cabbages and Condoms with Martin

Day 16
--Chatuchak Market in the morning
--Massages at favorite massage parlor
--Big C run
--Dinner at The Deck with Martin
--Pak Klong Talad

Day 17
--Jim Thompson Outlet
--Lumphini Park
--Picnic in Park
--EatMe photography Exhibit 
--Happy hour at Long Table with Martin
--Drag show with Mom, Ryan, Wesley

Day 18
--Last Day
--Packing, Leisurely Breakfast
--Trip to Chinatown
--Wandering wet markets in Chinatown
--Visit to Temple with largest solid gold buddha
--Dinner Pad Thai on Pradiphat 
--Massages (Full Circle from first day)




Whew! Makes me exhausted just looking at it ;)

Calvinist Clean Gone Awry

       There I sat, hyperventilating on my apartment floor, half-laughing, half-sobbing wondering what my life was coming to. I had broken into a cold sweat. My foot pulsed with pain and a swollen bruise was quickly appearing just above my knee. My eyesight sporadically narrowed down to tunnel-vision and I could feel my heart pounding at my temples. Shit, shit, shit, shit. Calm the hell down, Kate. 

      I had been cleaning my apartment, an endeavor I undertake briefly a couple times a week to keep myself sane and clutter-free. This time was special though... in 48 hours my mother was going to be here. Such a visit elicits a very special cleaning regiment that I have dubbed ‘Calvinist Clean’. You see, I have a weird tick about my mother being in my personal space. I assume that she is going to judge me. I bank on the fact that it will never be tidy enough, never be decorated properly, never live up to her expectations. The truth is, as she has told me time and time again, this is all a figment of my imagination. None the less, I go into a cleaning frenzy so intense that I have been known to pull a cleaning all-nighter on the eve of her visits. I am a reasonably tidy person to begin with but there is just something about my mother visiting that makes me go OCD in a heartbeat and a half. So, in preparation of her arrival to Bangkok, I was bound and determined to make my apartment sparkle. 

      I was standing tip-toe on a wooden shelf in my closet, dusting the top of my bureau (I envisioned my mother in white gloves checking this usually unseen area for dust bits) when I slipped. Unfortunately, my ever-present grace made this slip particularly nasty. Somehow I managed to cut the fleshy pad of my left big-toe on the blunt wooden corner.... a feat I am still trying to understand the physics of. I yelp, gasped, did the absurd ‘I hurt myself’ dance and bounded into the shower to assess the damage. I knew I was cut, I just didn’t know how severely. 

      Before I go any further I should also explain that I have a complicated relationship with my own blood, it serves as a symbolic extension of my own mortality. I can’t handle it. Place me in front of an accident victim or bedside in an operating room... no problemo. Give me a paper cut and I get queasy. It is uncontrollable and it seems to be getting worse as I age.  

      So, there I was, standing in the pouring shower fully clothed, assessing the cut’s severity by watching burgundy tinted water pour out of the wound. *Bam* Next thing I knew I was on the floor having, presumably, fainted and fallen face first to the tile. Fabulous. I realized how panicked I was but there was nothing I could do to stop it. I found it hilarious I was being so ridiculous but, at the same time, I was irrationally terrified my foot would never stop bleeding and I would leave my apartment in a body bag (where there is panic irrationality runs rampant, no?). I began to laugh breathlessly and sob all at once. It was 3:15 in the afternoon, 3:15 in the morning in the States. All my Mercer friends were at work and, frankly, I’d made enough of a fool out of myself in normal day-day life... they didn’t need to see me like this. If I called my folks they too would think I was dying. So, I decided to call upon the most comforting and rational person I know... Jimmy. 

      I wheezed as I dialed his cell phone via Skype. This was getting out of hand. I could barely talk. A sleepy voice answered and all I could do was wail. Immediately he went into EagleScout mode. Asking all the right questions, reminding me to breathe, assessing the damage from 10,000 miles away. Almost instantaneously I began to calm down. After a long conversation punctuated by a few more good cries he convinced me that I needed to head to the hospital. His reasoning was spot-on: I didn’t have anything to clean the wound with, I clearly could not be trusted with doing it myself, and I probably needed a shot of antibiotics to stave off infection. I cushioned my toe in a comically huge bundle of a torn t-shirt and limped to a taxi. 

      I am fortunate that I live within sight of the oldest private, non religiously affiliated hospital in Bangkok, Vichaiyut. After a 5 minute drive, I was greeted at the taxi bay by a doorman who opened the taxi door for me, looked at my puffy eyes and silly toe, and offered his shoulder to help me to the reception desk. I tried to explain my situation in Thai, an effort that quickly resorted to pantomine and ended by me accepting language defeat and asking for a translator. I was directed to the ‘Emergency Wing’. If the overly-helpful doorman seemed cushy, this so called ER was beyond luxurious. Three nurses saw me coming. One directed me to a couch, the other grabbed a bowl of cool jasmine water to wash my hands and face, and the one with the best English began speaking to me prefacing everything with ‘Madame’. I explained my wound, my insurance situation, my non-regular patient status, and my Visa status. She said I would need to do some paperwork... I waited for the stack of never-ended medical exam sheets. Instead, I got a half-sheet of paper that asked for my name, my allergies, my current medications, and my ailment. 

     After the 2 seconds it took to fill this out, I was weighed and my temperature read. I then got something so rare in the US healthcare system I am not sure it exists... ‘I’m sorry Madame, our Emergency doctor is with an accident trauma victim, it might be a 10 minute wait. Usually we have two doctors but today we are short staffed’ I must have looked at her like she was crazy... I had a cut toe and she was apologizing to me (apologizing!) for a shorter wait than I would get it I had an appointment in the States. ‘Mai pen rai’ I replied, ‘The accident victim needs the doctor more than me.’ Five minutes passed and they brought me into a modern operating room where classical music was playing. They asked me to lay on the table, tucked a thick, fuzzy blanket around me, and tenderly took my fumbled bandage job off my toe. The nurses were empathetic and made me feel like less of a doofus for coming to the ER for what I thought was such a silly injury. The doctor came in, shook my hand, exchanged niceties, and took a look at my foot. He too was appalled at how I managed such a wound under the described circumstances. He apologized when he had to squeeze it to assess the depth. I winced and whimpered. ‘You cut to the bone’, he said, ‘you’re lucky you can feel it. I would have expected nerve damage.’ Greeaaat. Just wonderful. ‘I’ll need to give you some stitches.’ I nearly jumped off the table. 

The room started to spin.

I protested, reminding him that I just wanted it thoroughly cleaned. 

I feebly argued.

I lost. 

      Before I knew it I was squeezing a nurses hand as he administered a healthy shot of numbing meds. After a few firm thwacks of his thumb that I was blissfully unaware of, he set to sewing me up. 7 stitches in total. He complimented my bravery... a joke considering I am such a baby... then talked to me about home-care and stitch removal. All in all, it took about 15 minutes. 

      I left in a wheelchair and was wheeled to the on-site pharmacy where I was given oral antibiotics and heavy-duty tylenol. Then, I went to the payment window. Having a father who has his fair share of health issues, I knew the bill might not be pretty. I took a deep breath, prepared myself for the worst, and reminded myself that not getting stitches would have led to near certain infection. The kind lady on the other side explained that my US government insurance wasn’t accepted but gave me a run down of how to apply for a reimbursement. She asked if I could pay me total that day though I was still unsure of how much it was. I said I could as long as I could use a credit card. She handed me the bill: 2800 baht, approximately $94 USD. I asked her if it was complete. She walked me through the doctors fee, the cost of the stitch kit, the cost of my meds, the hospital fee and the taxes.     

      Sure enough... I was floored. It was 30 minutes after I had entered the place. I was given world-class care in a comfortable and nurturing environment. An MD stitched me up and dedicated a full 15 minutes of his time to me. I got all my prescribed medication instantly and on site. They were only charging me $94??!! I handed her cash, for which I got another 5% discount.  Another apology spewed forth... this time about my visit being expensive. She seemed embarrassed she couldn’t take my Fulbright insurance and explained that Vichaiyut was one of the pricier hospitals in Bangkok. It took me great restraint to keep a straight face. 

      If only she knew what such a foray would cost in the States. I visited an emergency room (my first time ever) in November of 2009 and the bill was $800. I was given fluids and a chest x-ray. I saw a doctor for 60 seconds who expertly determined I wasn’t going to die. This cost did not include the ambulance ride which rang in, before insurance, at a whooping $2000 because they had to administer ‘life-saving-care’... better known as hooking me up to an EKG. Such cost seems unfathomable after my experience here.

      To add insult to the injury, as I was being wheeled out to the taxi bay the lady whom I had just settled my bill with came running after me waving a 100 baht note. I didn’t remember needing change and was a bit confused. She breathlessly explained that the hospital fee included roundtrip taxi fare if you didn’t require an ambulance. Really, Thailand? You put the American healthcare system to shame.

      And, for your viewing pleasure, a few action shots from my Calvinist Cleaning injury:

   The first two images were taken via Blackberry while I was on the sewing table... the last in my apartment, after my return home. Did injury stop me from my agenda? Heck no! That very night I went out for HappyHour with friends, visited the flower market and had a lovely, limping time. I tolerated the stitches for a week before removing them myself... no time for return hospital visits when my folks were around. We were on a Type-A schedule!!!! Hear more about that in the next post!

The Constant Adventure of Bangkok Public Transportation

      I’ve been driving since I was 12 or so.  How, might you ask, did I start so young? As an only child of protective/terrified parents they did what made the most sense... they gave me ample practice time behind the wheel before releasing me into the world of driving permits and unsupervised vehicle operation. My mother would allow me to drive her on errand runs, weekly jaunts into N.Ga, and wherever else she thought would offer me good driving practice. At the time I thought it was SO RAD and, in retrospect, it was an extraordinarily wise way for her to be there for the inevitable new driver screw-ups. I credit her with a (nearly) flawless driving record and my confidence behind the wheel. Living rurally throughout high school drive times were long, roads were treacherous, and too many of my classmates live’s were abbreviated because they made newbie errors on unforgiving roads. Mom clearly knew best.
      All this being said, I’ve spent the last 7ish year relying solely on myself for transport. I’ve always preferred to be ‘the driver’ with my group of friends and I genuinely enjoy driving. I’ve embarked on road-trips for no reason and, if particularly upset/bored/stressed, will often jump in the car for a spin around the neighborhood with the windows down and music blaring. 
      I haven’t driven for 6 months and it is dually bizarre and empowering. I’ve relied on public transportation, taxis, rides from friends and my own two feet to get around. It is a testament to the Thai Public Transport system that I have done all this cheaply, safely, and efficiently. Bangkok traffic is gnarly. 
      I use the SkyTrain to zip across town on evenings and weekends, high above the kilometer long traffic jams on Sukhimvit and Silom. The trains are frequent, every 5 mins or so, and may or may not be packed sardine style.The people-jammed cars are always eerily quiet unless there are a group of American’s on board... in which case their entire, boisterous conversation rings throughout the length of the train. A highlight of the BTS are the omnipresent BTS police, men in skintight uniforms wielding whistles and stern looks for anyone who crosses the yellow line or dives through the closing doors. Each one has their own separate whistling style. Some are whistle-happy, unleashing a shrill tone at every conceivable opportunity. Others reserve their chides for true offenders. One particularly conversational policeman at Sanam Pao has a jovial greeting for each farang who walks off the train. 
      My commute to work is not on the SkyTrain line but I am fortunate that the municipal bus system is convenient and cheap. I hop on a bus (#44 or #67) that may or may not be air-conditioned and, occasionally, has bus pets... namely squirrels or mice that reside in a cage bolted to the gear box and loved-on by the driver. Sound bizarre? It is SO very Bangkok. I love it. I’ve reached a level of fuzzy familiarity with many of the bus attendants and drivers. Because I get off at one of the largest public hospitals (right next to my university) and am usually dressed in professional wear, they assume I am a physician or physician in training. They address me as ‘Doctor’, a title which I have tirelessly tried to lose without much success. The bus never fails to be interesting. Fellow riders can be entertaining, my own actions embarrassingly clumsy, or the sights from the window particularly engaging... it all depends on the day.
      As much as I would like to say I have sworn off motorcycle taxis after the harrowing accident I witnessed, I haven’t. Car taxis are great for cross-city, late-night commutes but nothing beats the back of a motorcycle when I need to get somewhere quickly. When I say traffic here is terrible, I am doing it great favors. Between the hours of 7am-10am and 3:30pm-6:30pm many roads are hopelessly gridlocked. Motorcycle taxi men deftly weave in and out of traffic and can get me places in 5-10 minutes that it would take an hour or more otherwise. They are cheap, thrilling and offer a nice, breezy retreat from pounding the pavement. The taxi men are usually very kind and surprisingly careful. While weaving through traffic via motorcycle would be disastrous Stateside (can you imagine how pissed off Atlanta drivers would be if someone dared to beat them to their exit?), Bangkok drivers are hyper aware of their surroundings and are accustomed to looking for brazen pedestrians and zippy motorcycles. Its just part of the normal traffic scene here. All this praise was a lame attempt to justify my use of them to my mother. Maybe it worked? Doubtful. 
Finding transport and navigating the city is a daily adventure that can be dually exciting and frustrating. I look forward to having my car again but, for now, view my daily commutes and outings as constant adventures. Life is never boring here. 

Thai Massage

     I get a weekly 2 hour Thai massage that costs me $13 including a 30% tip. (Start the hate mail now, I fully appreciate how completely unreal that is.) I’ve been seeing the same lady, Dteeng, since I moved into my apartment. She. Is. Incredible. Each week she shows my body who is boss. She seeks out my knotted muscles and pummels them into submission. She pretzels my body to lengthen my muscles and stretch out every last ligament. She pops my toes, cracks my hands, and gives me a forehead massage so divine I am temporarily without my usual creases (soon to be wrinkles). If someone told me she had divine powers I would believe them. She is that fantastic.
     Thai massage is much different than the Americanized Swedish massage that is standard back home. In fact, there is very little they have in common save for the name. Massage here is a hybrid of guided yoga and deep tissue massage . There is no nudity, instead you change into more modest and easier to manipulate clothing (thai fisherman pants and a scrubs top). There is no moisturizing of the skin. You lay on the floor, on a dense mattress pad, instead of a specialized table. The masseuse uses hands, elbows, feet, knees, and whatever other body parts are convenient to manipulate your body and really dig in. There are times where they might be standing on you or you might have your head in their lap. And, often, the full experience is equal parts painful and pleasurable.
     Thai massage follows a pretty standard sequence of maneuvers. My lady always begins with a brief blood circulation cut-off to my legs by pinching the main blood supply vessels, up near my hips, for a minute or so. She accomplishes this by balancing in the plank position at the ideal point to accomplish a stop in circulation. The whooshing of warm blood back into my tingling, cool limbs offers instant relaxation... sounds odd but it is really neat when done right.  She then works on each leg individually, hitting pressure points and pulling/stretching them across my body. After legs, she moves to hands/arms. The same blood vessel pinching technique is used to begin. She then goes from palms to fingers, to wrists and up to the shoulder on each side. She then asks me to turn onto my side, into a sleeping position. She stretches my glutes and digs into them, often enough to make me winch. Some pretty intense chest and back opening stretches follow and I switch sides for the repeat. I then turn onto my stomach. She has learned that I have a surprisingly solid back and is not shy about really working out any kinks I might have. She then proceeds to do more pressure point work on my calves and the back of my knees and pops/loosens my ankles by pushing my legs, crossed, into the base of my spine. The grand finale comes when she seats herself behind me and asks me to lay in a pillow in her lap. Pressure points on my face and scalp are massaged in sequence. (This part is usually my favorite... a good face massage is pure bliss for me) She balances me out my sitting me in a cross legged position, pulling up my arms to lengthen my spine, then literally rolling backwards... pulling me along with her for the final, satisfying spinal pop.
      I usually try to drink a substantial amount of water after a massage because many Thais claim that the ‘toxins’ that are released during such an endeavor can cause illness. I’m not sure that this has any scientific credence (I remain highly doubtful) but it is a nice way to do a mini detox/flush while I am in the mindset of body care.
      I am a pretty limber person but I can say, hands down, that getting a regular Thai massage has loosened up hamstrings and back muscles that were holding years worth of tension. I’m a stress induced tensor... I grit my teeth, furrow my brow, and knot up my back at the first sign of physical or mental distress. I am now more keen to catch these habits as I am doing them and feel as though my body exists in a state of relaxation more frequently than before I moved here. Maybe its the culture, maybe its the Thai massage. Who knows. For now, I am thanking my lucky stars for the availability of such pampering and trying not to think about the day I return to the land of expensive, soft-handed massages. I’ll take a beating by Dteeng over that any day.

It Never Gets Easier

     I’m the type of person who gets misty eyed watching Folgers commercials. I’ve cried audibly while sitting in a movie theatre. I get teary eyed at the most mundane and simple of things. It’s a little silly but I’ve always tried to spin it as a positive.... At least I am not some cut-throat, jaded, coldhearted person who is desensitized to situations where one should be upset. Right?  I understand that I probably shouldn’t be so moved by a 30second video hawking coffee but I’m okay with shedding a tear when I witness injustice, suffering or heartbreak on the big screen or in the real world. 
     Now, put this in context in Bangkok. On any given day, I walk by people, their faces muddied with street filth, their clothes in tatters, who are begging for change. Sometimes it is a woman swaddling a baby. Sometimes it is an armless person, holding the change cup between their teeth. Sometimes it is a blind person, a speaker/boombox strung around their neck, microphone in hand who is shuffling down a bustling sidewalk singing for tips. On the train it might be a man on a roller cart, pulling himself down the aisle, his legs missing just below his hips. The other night it was man missing all his limbs, about my age, who had one of the most beautiful smiles I have ever seen. I am not exaggerating when I say these people are everywhere. I counted them once on a random morning on my commute to work. 9. 9 people in various states of poverty, disability, and despair. 9 people in my tiny sliver of the city that I tread in 20 minutes to get to work. I can only imagine how many there are in total.
     This whole story is complicated by the half-knowledge that many of these people are being exploited by underground gang that puts them on the street to beg in exchange for a guarantee of meager daily food and a place to sleep that is not a sidewalk. It is well known that many of the woman with babies may not actually be mothers but are just using the child as a pawn to garner more money. Every written word of advice states to avoid giving to these people because, by doing so, you ‘buy in’ to and perpetuate the cycle of their exploitation. It is the biggest catch-22, no-win situation. 
     To say it is heart wrenching would be an injustice. In my first weeks, I had to wear my sunglasses to hide brimming eyes when I passed these people. I would find myself clumsily drying my cheeks several times a day. I made a promise to myself that I would not give them money but, if particularly upset, I would buy a bit of street food for them. I told myself that as time went by it would get easier. 
     It hasn’t and, 6 months in, I realize it won’t. I’ve managed to train myself to look at them less. I’ve found a route to work that involves a different bus stop and an unnecessary street crossing to limit my commute encounters to 2 or 3. But, if I make the mistake of even thinking about their plight for a millisecond, I cry. 
    And, really, I’m happy I do. I hope I never become immune to human suffering. It seems that so many of humanity’s problems would be solved if more people acted with humanity. Now, if only I could turn these tears into a solution... 

My Love Affair with Street Food

      I adore Thai street food. Love it. LOVE it. Eat it every single day and, if I don’t, miss it like crazy. I never get sick of sitting down on a faded plastic stool, often with questionable carry-capacity, scooting up to a metal card table, and chowing down on freshly prepared deliciousness. It will never get old and I can guarantee that it will be something that I mourn losing before I leave. 
  For many Westerners, street food is a bit iffy. Ordering food from a cart displaying is various raw wares and eating such food whilst sitting on the sidewalk is not something that 1st world citizens do with any frequency. Questions of sanitation are probably to first to pop up. Then there is the worry about what precisely one is eating. Fair enough. I get the initial apprehension. But, if you are going to come to Thailand (or any of Southeast Asia, India, Central/South America, or China....all places where street food is king) it is a tourist crime not to indulge in street food on multiple occasions. Get over the sanitation bit. I would rather see the person (and the hand) that is cooking my dinner than have them cloaked behind a kitchen door.  No, the food cart might not make an ‘A’ on a US health department scorecard but I doubt my kitchen in the States would do much better. Furthermore, Thais eat street food everyday themselves. If there were some hidden sanitation crisis I guarantee that street carts wouldn’t be frequented by families day after day. Not every country bathes in hand sanitizer. You’ll live. Promise. 
  The really delightful thing about street food is its variance. You won’t see a measuring cup or spoon-set. Instead, you’ll watch a street-chef prepare a meal from scratch, in minutes, from memory. Amazing in and of itself. Recipes vary by vendor, by street, by province, by region. For instance, in Bangkok, the som-tom makers understand my tender (by thai-standards) palate with regard to spice quotient... They understand my ‘pheed nit noy na ka’ to mean 1-2 chiles at maximum. But outside of Bangkok? In the heart of Issaan ‘pheed nit noy na ka’ seems to translate to: ‘I’d like to feel my tongue again, if it takes a day or two thats okay, just so long as it is not permanently in fire’. Not that I am complaining... I think that eating locally, on the street, in the proverbial gastronomic trenches is that quickest and easiest way to immerse myself in the particularities of a place. Where else can I get a literal taste of local culture while people watching, finding out the local gossip, and breathing in the sights/sounds/smells of an area? All this and the knowledge that I am supporting local people and eating (mostly) local agricultural products... Never have I ever been so satisfied with a meal on so many levels.

New Years and My Resolutions

I recognize that this is a full month late. I've been busy with with and a whirlwind visit from my folks. Just now starting to post backlogged posts. Bear with me na ka.

      I celebrated the arrival of 2011 with a couple hundred thousand of Bangkok’s finest folks in the CentralWorld plaza. Lucky for me, my Mercer colleagues had the forethought and patience to reserve a table for our group at a beer garden so that we didn’t have to play crowd sardines as 2010 rolled away. To say that our table wasn’t crowded would be generous but we had seats, easy-access to beer, and a bit more space than those standing in the crowds. It was well worth it. We grooved (er, winced) to the tunes of a Thai rock band whose power ballads were an interesting departure from my folksy preferences. Let’s just say I won’t be first (or last) in line if they go on tour. 
       All that aside, the company was stellar and, really, what more could you ask for in NYE? Even with the power ballads and cramped seating all I could do was smile. I sipped my beer, reveled at the masses, and made a grand fool of myself as we counted down to 2011... hooting, hollering, and white-girl dancing galore. Just as the clock struck midnight, all craziness broke loose. First it was a mist. Then it was a downpour. Before we knew it the entire area was engaged in a full-blown Chang beer fight. I’d like to think that everyone got as soaked as we were but, to be fair, I do believe our group, as the only farang in sight, were targeted by festive/care-free thais. I didn’t mind from the start, but there were a few in our group who got understandably peeved to be doused with beer. I chalked it up to a necessary and utterly-memorable way to ring in my first Bangkok new years and flung water and beer right back at them. I’m sure I was a sight to behold, especially when I continued, damp with beer, onto our favorite dancing haunt. The next morning I woke up, counted my lucky stars for fabulous friends and guardian angels, and nursed my first (and hopefully last) Chang-over of my time here. Whew, what a night.


Its taken me a few days of introspection but I have come up with a few resolutions/goals for 2011:
1. Be gentle with myself. A line from Desidrata, also known as my mantra, and good advice on physical, emotional, bodily, spiritual, professional, and personal levels. Noted and striving for.
2. Meditate everyday... even if I can only squeeze in 10 minutes. I feel better, think better, and am happier if I do.
3. Chew my food more thoroughly. Eating with Thais has made me realize that I am a virtual food vacuum. I can inhale a plate of food in the time it takes them to chew their first two bites. Not healthy, not smart, and probably a good habit to break. 


Here's to a joyous, adventure filled year overflowing with love, love, love. 

Tick Collection: Thai Style

      Back in third grade I was prompted to write about ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’. (Weren’t we all?)  You see, my entrance to nerd-dom started early. Really early. Even at the tender age of 8 I had my life planned out. I was going to be, wait for it.......... a HERBOLOGIST. Of course, that is an entirely made-up term. I defined this career as stomping through the jungle in exotic locales looking for plants that had medicinal properties. So very 8-year-old me. Screw dreams of being a prima ballerina, I set my sights on science early. Can you imagine the sort of response my desire garnered in my rural, WNC, public school teachers and peers? Yeah, I was that kid. Make my mistake, I was never ridiculed or bullied... well, not any more than is normal in the cruel world of children’s social interactions. But I was tagged at very early age as being a little, in Southern geniality terms, interesting.
      Fair enough. I am a little odd. Cool by me. 
      But, you know what is really cool?! 14 years later I AM getting paid to stomp through the rainforest. That’s right, I might not be a ‘herbologist’ but, gosh-darn-it, I am living the dream. Poetic justice or just coincidence? Who knows. And, frankly, I don’t care. What concerns me is that I got to go tick collecting in Thailand. So freaking cool.


Where? Northeastern Thailand. 
When? November 27-December 2nd, 5 days
Who? Chalao, Bpioo, Mee and I
Provinces? Chiayaphum, Phetchabun, Loei, Phitsanulok, and Uttaradit (And a glimpse of Laos!)
National Parks? PhuKhieo Wildlife Sanctuary, NaamNaao National Park, PhuSuan National Park, PhuSoiDao National Park, NamtokChatTrakan National Park
Ticks Collected? 200+ between the 4 of us
Ticks parasitized by? More than I care to admit. I stopped counting after I pulled nymph #40 off my stomach. We all managed to get a number of nymphs. Chalao has the brunt of the after effects. He is still dealing with bite site side-effects... we’ve been keeping track of his symptoms and documenting the wound progression. We even drew blood and have been doing some testing.
Trip Summarized in One Word: Wonderous. 


I think the pictures will speak for themselves (see video at the end of the post). But I do have a few anecdotes to share that have no equivalent pictorial representation:


The Leech
     I have never really dealt with leeches. In my mind they are creatures that inhabit faraway, watery  places. Sure, I was traipsing through the Thai rainforest but I wasn’t fording rivers.... surely, I would be fine. Wrong. 
     On the first day, our first national park, I was enthusiastically absorbed in leaving no leaf unturned for our pursuit of ticks. I was utterly in my element. We had walked for over an hour and were just about to retrace our way back to the truck. The day had been incredibly successful. Ticks were everywhere. I think at that point we had already found at least 3 genus... not too shabby. I was pretty blissed out and, at first, paid no mind to the wet, cold sensation on my foot. It became annoying enough that I reached down to brush it off. To my horror there was, attached to my foot and engaged in full-body pumping action, a LEECH. 
      I screeched, leapt up into the tell-tale, one-footed, balanced dance of ‘get the hell off’ and managed scare the beejesus out of everyone present. I think I might have even let a four-letter word or two slip. Really, I was a sight to behold. Chalao came to the rescue and procured the critter off my foot. Whew. I would have liked to have stomped it but Chaloa, ever the scientist, wanted to save it for a colleague. He 
      The funniest thing about this whole experience is that I am really, really conscious of ‘keeping face’ around my lab-mates. I try extremely hard to keep an air of academic professionalism. I do not allow myself to act anything less than happy in their presence, no matter what. And yet, there I was, in full blown freakout mode in the middle of the rainforest. So much for saving face. 
     As the trip progressed I acquired more leeches. Lots of them. The visceral, emotional response lessened with each one and I managed to even leave one attached long enough to snap a picture. Make no mistake, they still creep me the heck out. Ew. 


I Am my Father’s Daughter
     To really get the full effect of this story you have to understand that my father is just over 6ft tall and has, for the duration of my relationship with him, always managed to hit is head. If there is a low overhang, the crest of his head will meet it violently. Always. It is basically a running joke in our family that this sort of misfortune always befalls him. 
     Thailand is not made for tall people. And by ‘tall’ I mean anyone over 5’6”. By this definition, I am tall. Way tall. In Bangkok I get by pretty easy. Some buses have a tight head clearance but, mostly, there is no need for me to duck and weave through my daily life. However, in rural areas, things are simply not built to accommodate someone my height. Totally understandable.  Somehow, despite recognizing this fact, my physical actions did not reflect such knowledge. 
      Case and point: We stayed at a simply stunning bungalow near the Thai-Laos border. We arrived there late at night, in the pitch dark. The bungalow was set up in such a manner that one had to step from the group up to a porch and from the porch into the room. Unsurprisingly, the head clearance at both of these thresholds was low.... lower than could accommodate me. 
     So, the first time we inspected the room, I gingerly stepped up to the porch and *SMACK*, crest o’ head meets ceiling beam. Fantastic. I laughed and so did everyone else. It was really par for the course. Then, 15 seconds later, I did it again. Stepping into the bungalow, not even thinking about it, I stood tall and proud. *WAM*. Precisely the same point of contact. Lovely. The dull soreness from the first time around graduated into splitting headache. I laughed and, surprise surprise, so did everyone else... silly American who doesn’t understand her own height. I gobbled 3 ibuprofens and chugged water in hopes that pain would subside. 30 minutes later while I was exiting the bathroom, I hit my head AGAIN. Not even kidding. The impact wasn’t nearly as jarring as the first two times but it was significant and hardly pleasant.  Bpioo and Mee must have thought that I was the most clumsy person they had ever seen. Meanwhile, they dipped in and out of the bathroom with nary a thought of the low threshold. I couldn’t help but be a bit envious.

     The next morning we woke up in Thai heaven. It was misty and, dare I say, pretty chilly out. The porch of the bungalow overlooked a sprawling lotus pond and it was the kind of quiet that makes you wonder if rapture is real. I padded outside, camera in hand and explored the immediate area. On the way back in, I ducked under the first threshold and congratulated myself on being so savvy to remember to do so. Let’s just say I spoke too soon. 10 minutes later, after a brief session of psuedo-meditation on the porch, I attempted to step back inside the bungalow. *CRACK* The entire bungalow structure shuddered under the impact. goddamnit. I erupted into peels of laughter because, if I hadn’t, there was a good chance I would have welled up from frustration/pain. 
     Is such a thing genetic? I have little evidence to prove otherwise. 


The Chicken Head
      If you have been reading regularly, you will have noticed that the frequency of freaky food encounters has decreased. I attribute this partially to my increasing thai language capabilities “mai moo, na ka” and a mostly to my honed eye for mystery meat ingredients. 
      My lab mates understand my vegetarian tendencies and, despite my insistence that they do not, always try to accommodate my dietary finickiness. On this trip we had been eating alot of chicken, which I am okay with while here, but I’ve really never been chicken’s biggest fan. Chalao seemed to read my mind and after two solid days of chicken meals (6 meals straight), started asking for extra veggies... I was both deeply grateful and totally relieved. For the next two days I feasted on local mushrooms, morning glory, eggplant, and squash.... all way better than chicken. One our way back to Bangkok (an epic 600 km road-trip), Chalao was insistent that we stop at a roadside restaurant for a traditional Issan food as our last meal of the trip. Since SomTum, my absolute favorite green papaya salad was sure to be included, I knew it would be a delicious meal regardless of whether it included meat.
      We found the loveliest of restaurants perched on the side of a rice patty. It was empty save for a flock of roving mini-cocks, clearly some specialty breed of chicken, that were much cuter than the usual meat variety that roam everywhere here. One of the most traditional of Issan meals is somtum, baked -over-coals chicken, and sticky rice. The combination is exquisite when done right. Just the right amalgamation of salty, sweet, sour, and spicy. Our meal here was easily the tastiest example I have had the privilege of eating so far. Despite my usual indifference to chicken, this one was cooked to perfection and so perfectly complimented the side dishes that I couldn’t resist a second helping. Chalao, excited by my enthusiasm for the meal, quickly served me up another piece. 
      As I slowly pulled the meat from the bone, arranging forkfuls of equal portions sticky rice, papaya salad and chicken, I had trouble defining the portion of the bird I was eating. (I really shouldn’t be so inquiring) All the bones seemed to be in irregular places and there were ligaments I was not accustomed to dealing with. Finally, I pulled the last bit of crisped skin of the bone and revealed a chicken head, eyelids and wattle intact. It was all I could do not to change my demeanor. I took deep breaths, calmed my queasy stomach, and covered the atrocity with a paper napkin. It was probably the best act of self-control I have made yet. 
      Just when I think I have everything under control a chicken head lands on my plate. Good ole’ Thailand, keeps me on my toes.