Thailand: Monks, Teachers and Food

Monk, by Carson Christiano

By Carson Christiano - This afternoon, on my way to yoga class across town, a group of five apprentice monks and their teacher, all clad in bright orange robes, hopped into the back of my songthow. These trucks are equipped to hold four people on each side, but because monks are forbidden to sit next to women, they all had to crowd onto the opposite bench. There I was, riding along face to face with six monks sitting on top of one another, with a whole bench to myself. While it was certainly an interesting sight to behold, I don’t think I have ever felt more powerful in my womanhood than I did at that moment. I couldn't help smiling the whole way.

Two weeks ago I left my new Language Corps friends and the pulse-pounding streets of Pattaya and boarded an overnight train to Chiang Mai, the alluring cultural mecca of the North. Knowing basically nothing at all about my journey or destination other than it felt right (someone must have told me they had mountains up here), I tried to cover my insecurities by convincing myself I could handle anything the wind blew my way. This has, more or less, been the case (an exception being last weekend's motorbike ride to the elephant camp, when the wind blew a substantial amount of dust in my eyes. I had some trouble coping with this at the time).

I stumbled off the train at 9am, squinting in the hot sun and cursing myself at the amount of stuff I brought into this country. I swear the entire contents of my luggage I could have done without (except maybe my new Leatherman knife, it has come in handy for many a mango peelin'). Forty-five minutes and about eight songthow rides later, I was standing at the doorstep of the Pagoda Inn, which I was lucky enough to be introduced to by a fellow Language Corps alum.

Within 20 minutes of my arrival, I was whisked off by Paul, the owner, to a language school where I promptly filled out an application and had an interview—all before changing out of the clothes I had slept in. Thinking I was merely humoring the man's interest in my quest to become an English teacher, I never guessed I'd end up working there. And, of course, I did (after applying to about eight other schools, for no apparent reason.)

Within two days I had taught my first class. It had disaster written all over it, but my mantra in this country has been to say yes to everything (within reason, of course), and this was certainly no exception. David, my overzealous boss, called me at 9:15 on a Saturday morning begging me to teach a class of 9-year-olds starting at 10. I think the only English word I heard come out of their little mouths all morning was no, so I knew we weren't going to get along. Since then I've picked up a weekend class of 19 and 20 year olds, which is terrific. They are eager to learn English and the small group size (only five people) allows me to learn about Thai culture while getting to know them individually.

Chiang Mai has the topography of Boulder, CO, the heat and traffic of Mexico City, and the energy of a child who has just woken up and realized that every morning is going to be Christmas from now on. Everything is new and meaningful here. This week, the whole city is transformed in celebration of the Loy Kathong Festival, or Festival of Lights. Every night the moat and old city walls are lit up with hundreds of burning candles, the river is blasted with fireworks (sometimes I wake up feeling like I'm in a war zone), and the sky is filled with gigantic paper lanterns that you can send floating into the air to release your sins, for a small fee.

Tomorrow night, under the full moon, thousands of these lanterns will be released simultaneously, in what I hear is the most impressive display of natural light found anywhere in the world. People have spent weeks building their Kathongs, small lotus-shaped rafts made of banana leaves, which they will use to float candles out onto the water for good luck. Judging by the number of misfires I've seen already with the fireworks and the lanterns, I imagine a lot of old teak wood houses will be burnt to the ground tomorrow night, but I'm sure it will be beautiful.

Pig Heads, by Carson Christiano

Now what's a piece of writing about Thailand without mention of food?

Food is without contest the most vivid symbol of the Thai love affair with life; it is consumed in every corner of the city, in every shape, color, consistency and flavor, and at all hours of the day and night. Rick, our TEFL instructor, informed us when we arrived in Pattaya that Thais eat only one meal a day—it begins when they wake up in the morning and ends when they go to sleep.

Consequently, my new favorite activity is to get lost in the market. This means picking an entry point somewhere along one of the main roads, holding my breath (unless there's a banana roti cart or flower stall nearby) and plunging headlong into the maze of dried squids, swimming eels, barbequed frogs, lanterns, watches, puppies, a whole slew of concoctions wrapped neatly in banana leaves, stuff that looks like candy, stuff that looks like meat, stuff that looks like neither but smells otherwise, shrimps, mussels, pig heads, star fruits, som-oh (helps cure diarrhea), durian (smells like diarrhea), and a whole mess of other things.

My goal is to taste at least one new food every day, but I seem to be running out of "safe" choices—I can't very well go on eating every kind of sticky rice there is every day of the week in good conscience. The best part is that all the foods are labeled in Thai, if at all, so you have to take your chances that the cart you go up to has what you're asking for. If you chose to live dangerously and point at the food you want rather than stick to the three things you know how to say, then you have no guarantees about what you're eating. Sometimes you have a hunch beforehand, and then you walk away feeling triumphant and brave. I've only tried the "blind pointing move" once, and I don't think I'll do it again for a very, very long time.

Communicating here is an adventure in itself. I have found that Thai people are very patient and receptive of my attempts to speak their language, generally a different experience from, say, communicating in broken French to a French person. My week of Thai language training has taken me farther than I expected—I can eat, travel, and ask for directions with few problems, but I've found myself using sign language just as frequently. It's amazing what you can say without using words.

The other night I was sitting at a café writing when a little girl about five years old came up to me selling flowers (I've seen this technique a lot, and don't know what to make of it just yet). Instead of asking me for money, which is what I thought she would do, she took my pen and began drawing little rings and bracelets on my hand. I gave her a “ring” in the shape of a heart, and four baht. Instead of running off to deliver the prize to her mother, she continued drawing in my notebook—flowers, squiggly lines, creatures with long limbs and elaborate sets of wings—then handed me the pen to do the same, until we were engaged in a fun little a game of pictionary. After several minutes back and forth like this, she smiled at me with her huge, brown eyes, handed me a rose, and disappeared into the night.

Aside from these moments of genuine discovery and interaction, it hasn't been easy adjusting to a new place and a new pace of life. I have felt a whole range of emotions since arriving in this city by myself—everything from loneliness and bewilderment to profound appreciation for the world and my unique place in it. When I focus my heart and mind on the present and what I'm here to do—challenge myself and explore—I realize that I have never been farther from alone in my whole life. I have people all around me, giving me their wisdom and helping me find my way (whether they know it or not), and I have all of my friends and family at home supporting me, encouraging me, and allowing me to relay this experience through phone calls and emails, thereby making it richer and altogether more worthwhile.