Learning to Run

Everyday for the past 2 weeks, I’ve been running on a road meticulously strung about with cow dung. The road encircles a charming lake surrounded by coconut and banana trees, village houses—ranging from beautiful “western style” houses to more traditional Thai wooden ones atop stilts, and the local wat. Children, most of them students at my school, stop playing as I run by and yell “hello teacher!” or "Farang! Farang!” Every now and then one of them will run alongside me for a few meters before running back to screaming companions. Rice farmers, on their way back from the fields atop their rot kwai leks, little makeshift tractors that, when translated literally from the Thai, mean "little buffalo", wave and give me the thumbs up. The cow herders will slap their cows out of the way. Young highschool girls yell “I love you!” from the local goitiao stand while the young men of the village, chilling by their motorcycles will invite me to drink “whisky Thai” with them. Sometimes, I get to catch the monks—in their stunning saffron robes—hanging out by a rundown, wooden dock on an adjacent lake, feeding the fish.

This has been my “running environment” for two weeks now and I’ve enjoyed it tremendously. The funny thing is, I’ve never been a runner. My father’s been into running for some time now; running is a source of quality bonding time for my girlfriend and her family; one of my best friends in college was so into running that during our semester abroad in Oxford, he invested in running shoes (at the cost of sacrificing some beers at the pubs). And yet, despite this inclination towards running from those closest to me, I never quite understood how they could enjoy what I considered to be a rather boring exercise—one I considered inferior to basketball or any other sport where running was merely a part of a greater whole.

Lately however, I’ve begun to understand why they run. It’s like meditating almost. I’ve found it to be a perfect opportunity to process everything that happened during the day (and as a Peace Corps Volunteer, there is certainly a lot to process…whether the day was eventful or not). The forty or so minutes I’ve run everyday have been therapeutic in so many levels. And they’ve made me appreciate my life here in a special way. Running around the lake everyday has allowed me to really take in the essence of my village surroundings. I get to hear the sounds, see the sights, smell the scents (thankfully there is more to smell than cow dung) and yet I don’t get tied down by any one thing in particular. I get to take it all and yet I get to keep on running and processing how vibrant everything is. Simply put, I feel so alive.

The benefits have been wonderful. Not only have I felt healthier, I’ve also found that I’ve slept so much better, felt more at peace, and I’ve actually made some good gains in my language learning (I’m seriously trying to learn how to read and write Thai) I do believe that running has helped center me. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that I exercise by a beautiful, vibrant lake and by the time I end, it’s usually sunset…and sunsets by my village’s lake are simply stunning.
I wouldn’t call myself a serious runner quite yet but I’m certainly enjoying running now more than in any other time of my life. And for now, that is fine with me.

An Awesome Birthday

If anyone had told me a few years ago that my 24th birthday would be a 5 night affair, I would have laughed and said, “That would be awesome.”


If anyone had told me a few years ago that on my 24th birthday I would be surrounded by people I had just met but have become like family to me, I would have smiled and said, “That would be awesome.”


If anyone had told me a few years ago that part of my 24th birthday celebration would take place in a little village in rural Thailand and that rural village would in fact be my home, I would have thought the person telling me this crazy but I would have said “That would be awesome.”


Now, if anyone had told me a few years ago that my 24th birthday would be a 5 night celebration in a village in rural Thailand, surrounded by an amazing group of people, and would involve teaching English to 168 screaming Thai children, a whole lot of Karaoke, drinking with VIP’s of my village (and province) at 4 in the afternoon, walking around a beautiful lake, having grasshoppers while sitting around 1000 year old Khmer ruins, turning my home into the closest thing to a frat house this side of Thailand has ever seen, playing pusoy dos till the wee hours of the morning, hanging by a pool, having a generous serving of gelato for under 1 dollar, eating a sushi restaurant out of rice, getting sloshed and then dancing to music I do not understand while smoking a hookah…if anyone at all had told me a few years back that my 24th birthday would be celebrated this way…I would have shaken my head in disbelief, shrugged my shoulders as I thought this person insane, and let out a smirk…though underneath the head shaking, shoulder shrugging and the smirk would be the words “man, that sure would be awesome.”


Well, as I type this entry while dealing with a bad hangover, a dazed mind, very slow reflexes, an exhaustion I have not felt since my college days, a horrible sore throat, a room that smells worse than my horrible air freshener, and a very content smile, "alls I know" is this: my 24th birthday was AWESOME


To all of you that made my 24th birthday so special—Thank you. My house still reeks and my bathroom is horrendous but the sound of your collective laughter still echoes through the walls. And believe me when I say this: my little village will never be the same. Farang fever is running high. Already, I’ve had so many questions about the farangs that invaded Kin Kao Tung Nung Phamai and when you all will return. Their beds and pillows and blankets (as well as the beer, ice and peanuts), my neighbors have assured me, are ready for you to come back.


And to those who I was not fortunate enough to celebrate with (though I appreciate all the greetings you sent via phone, email, Friendster and Facebook)—here’s to 25!!! Cheers!

The Voice of "Real"

'What is REAL?' asked the Rabbit one day, 'Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?'

'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you…’

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become’

In the Velveteen Rabbit, the process of becoming real is a painful one: hair falls off, eyes drop out, joints are loosened and become shabby. Amidst the pain however, is something beautiful.

Two experiences this past weekend reminded me of the beauty (and the pain) associated with something “becoming real”. I attended an HIV/AIDS conference in Kamphaengphet, Thailand together with other Peace Corps Volunteers and our Thai counterparts. Dr. John Williams, the country director, opened the conference by sharing a story of a young child he had met many years earlier in Eastern Europe. The child, a 12 year old boy named Marios, was endowed with a spirit that revealed itself magnificently through twinkling eyes and an infectious smile. Marios was one of the top students in his school, was a talented artist who enjoyed water colors, and was such a joy to be around with. Marios was also HIV positive.

Despite his illness, Marios zest for life served as a constant reminder of how life should be lived and he had the gift for inspiring this very truth in the hearts of the people he met. Dr. John happened to be one of the lucky ones. Inspiration however, was not the only gift Dr. John received from Marios. At the end of their meeting, Marios gave Dr. John some of his paintings and his most prized possession—an easter egg painted for him by a friend, with his name inscribed in it. “Remember me” Marios told Dr. John.

Not too long after their meeting, Marious succumbed to the disease.

The story in itself was powerful but it was listening to Dr. John share the story and watching him read from a journal entry written after meeting Marios that struck me most. The way his hands shook while holding the paper; the love and sincerity he carried in his voice as he reread the words he wrote many years ago; the thoughtfulness with which he shared Marios story with our group made me realize that he was not just telling us a story but was, in a special way, sharing Mario’s easter egg with us. He was also fulfilling Marios’ request.

I did not get to ask him—though I suspect this to be true—that a big part of who Dr. John is today; his passion for his work; his outlook on the world—is largely due to a little child with sparkling eyes and an infectious smile and a spirit much larger than his frail body who taught Dr. John a special lesson—and a very real one at that—on the day they met.

The 2nd incident happened on the way home. It was hour 7 of my 12 hour bus ride back to site. I was jotting down thoughts on the power an experience can lend to a person’s voice when I got a call from my friend Tara. After catching up for a bit, I told her about Dr. John’s story and how it had struck me. Tara then told me her own story.

A few months earlier, a student of hers lost his mother to AIDS. The student, a 4th grade boy, was HIV positive himself. It was understood at the time of the mother’s death that the child was to live with his aunt. Somewhere along the way, responsibilities for the child were passed on to his grandmother who, at the time, was also taking care of another grandchild. Before the student could move in with his grandmother, the rest of the family entered the picture and saw to it that the student would not move in for fear that the disease would spread unto the other child and ultimately around the family. The child now lives alone in an empty house and while the grandfather comes every night to sleep in the house, he does so in another room. Given the strong communal culture of Thailand, especially in the rural villages—where families (even extended families) tend to all sleep together—the grandfather staying in a different room pretty much serves to show how ostracized this kid has become.

Tara told me how she cried as she found out more about the situation. Tara of course, like many people, was well aware of the stigma placed on people with HIV and AIDS around the world due to a lack of education about the disease on the part of communities. But, just as is the case with many people, until the issue becomes very real—until people see the ugliness of the stigma up close, affecting someone people actually know—the issue remains as just another sad issue. The very moment she learned about the situation, Tara told me, the issue suddenly became personal…and very real. “I just wanted to take the kid and make his life better” she said.
I have a strong feeling she will and I’ll explain why in a bit.

These 2 experiences stand out from a weekend that was full of inspiration and learning. I wrote these words just before Tara called me,
“we share a lot by giving facts…we perhaps share more by giving stories”
And
“It is when an issue becomes real to us that we acquire the voice to speak about it and touch more than just the mind…we also touch the heart”

This is exactly what happened this weekend. Dr. John and Tara were already involved in meaningful development work but the experiences they shared with me were the very experiences that put a human face on the issue and made it much more real to them. This is why I’m optimistic that Tara will do exactly what she said she wanted to do—make this kid’s life better. Knowing her, Tara will do great things in her village (in fact, she’s started developing a youth group in her community that will work with people affected by AIDS) but now, the importance of AIDS education is no longer just an issue for her. It is very real. The process of it becoming real was not pretty—in fact, it was a painful story—but I know the result will be an even more passionate commitment to educating people.

As for Dr. John, he keeps a picture of a little kid with huge eyes and a smile full of joy, grace and a hint of mischief on his desk—a great and very real source of inspiration for his important work.

These 2 stories remind me of why I love that particular section from the Velveteen Rabbit. They also makes me appreciate the position I am in as a volunteer where I get to experience—first hand—a way of life that not too many people from where I come from get to experience. I also appreciate being in the field with other volunteers—people I consider friends—who are also going through the same things and are able to share their stories with me. These stories are sometimes painful, often beautiful, and always real.


P.S. As I was writing this, I found myself getting super excited that Caitlin and I are doing similar work. As she lives longer in Uganda and I live longer in Thailand, I can only imagine how much we will both experience. I look forward to exchanging stories with her and listening as our voices, when speaking of issues about HIV/AIDS, poverty, gender and development become all the more powerful. I look forward to seeing how our experience in the Peace Corps helps us “become” and shapes us as individuals and as a couple.

Thoughts on Traveling

“I was born upon thy banks river
My blood flows in thy stream
And thou meanderest forever
At the bottom of my dream”
- Henry David Thoreau

I’ve always thought of rivers as an apt metaphor for my desire to travel—the river’s flow akin to the part of my soul that longs to constantly be on the move. So it comes as no surprise that in the places I’ve been fortunate to travel to, I’ve always been drawn to rivers—be it the Mekong or the Thames; the Kwai or the Seine—and I’ve spent hours sitting by their banks enjoying a book or a beer or both.

I enjoy rivers for the sense of contentment that comes with sitting by them—few things in this world are more calming than a river’s flow—and also for the sense of restlessness it stirs in me. After all, one of the most fascinating things about a river is that a river never ever really stays put; it is always headed somewhere. And it is this—the promise of seeing what is beyond the bend—that touches that part of my soul that longs to travel, inciting it to seek adventure and excitement.

And yet, as I’ve come to appreciate rivers more, I’ve noticed a change in my general attitude towards travel. The excitement has not wavered nor has the longing for adventure (these, I pray, will remain as constant as a river’s eventual journey to sea) but just as I’ve taken a river’s flow as a metaphor for my wanderlust, a river’s ability to bend and shift—I’ve seen stretches of the Mekong dry enough to traverse by foot and sections where I would not dare jump in—has come to represent my evolving understanding of what to travel truly means.

For a while, I loved travel for the sheer adventure of it. I enjoyed the adrenaline rush of hopping on a train or plane, seeing a new place, and then moving on. I loved the idea of waking up in a new city (or country) and not knowing for certain what time it was…or what day it was. This sort of travel was exciting, fueled by stories of rushing for trains and sleeping in stations, and meeting new people everyday; of seeing pictures where I stood by one famous monument in one city wearing the very same thing I wore in a monument of another since I was seeing them both in the same day. Such travel was fun and exciting.

But it was also shallow. I recall that after a backpacking trip to Europe, I came back and told people I loved Barcelona. Looking back, I ask myself: What about Barcelona did I love? Did I even get to know Barcelona? I was there for five days and I doubt I met a single person from Barcelona. I had a wonderful time certainly…but a time that could have been had in any of the other cities I visited in Europe—the only difference being the monuments that I saw…monuments that while exclusive to Barcelona, were not exclusively Barcelona. I realize, looking back, that I did not get to know Barcelona at all.

Lately however, I’ve learned to appreciate staying in a place a little longer or at least staying in a place long enough to truly be there. I admit that such sort of traveling can at times be mundane and highlights are few and far between. But the highlights do come and more often than not, they have as much to do with the simple aspects of life as they do with the grand…and they are just as memorable. I know I’ve been excited about things here in Thailand that I would otherwise have taken for granted—or wouldn’t have stopped to appreciate—when I was backpacking in Europe. Things like nuances in culture, in styles of dress, in social norms, etc—things that I’ve only been able to appreciate after being in Thailand for a while. So I daresay that there is indeed a charm about staying in a place long enough to know it—if not completely at least intimately. Like a farmer might say he knows a field for instance; or a ranger, a forest; or a citizen, a city; or a hiker, a mountain.

Or like a person might know a river. “I’ve known rivers” Langston Hughes once wrote. The intimacy he goes on to describe—being lulled to sleep by the Congo; sitting by the Nile and building pyramids by it; watching the change of hue by the Mississippi —suggest an element of waiting…and staying…and watching. At the end of the poem, he exclaims “My soul has grown deep like the river.”

My experience in Thailand, where I’ve slowly immersed myself in a way of life that I could have easily bypassed has added depth to my being and has broadened my perspective. Whenever I find myself longing for the excitement of experiencing new places at a faster pace, I pause and take into account what I am able to experience: the unfolding of the rice season, spending hours sitting by a hammock alongside cow herders and rice farmers and learning about their lives, being able to have meals with villagers, learning about their conceptions (and misconceptions) of America, and so much more. And most nights I find that my cup is filled. On the other nights where my cup might not necessarily be filled—where homesickness, or boredom, or a lack of a sense of purpose sink in, I just try to remain thankful for being given the opportunity to see the world in such a different way and pray that the river bends tomorrow.

My desire to see the world is strong—perhaps stronger than it has ever been. But now, the river that meanderest at the bottom of my dreams—the very fountainhead of my wanderlust—happens to be a wiser, deeper one.

A Beautiful Bike Ride

Some pics from a nice bike ride around the village on a beautiful day

Beautiful Roi-Et

During my site visit last February, I remember not being too impressed with my city. I loved my village but I felt my province's major city did not have much to offer.

I was wrong.

True, Roi-Et isn't as exciting as Khon Kaen or Ubon (some of the more major cities of Northeastern Thailand) but what it lacks in excitement, it more than makes up for in charm. Roi-Et is certainly a charming city. Because of it's relatively small size, there is a coziness about the place and the traffic that plagues bigger cities is none existent. The people are friendly, the food is good and the streets are pretty clean.

As I've come to spend more time in it, I've found myself thankful that instead of having huge shopping malls or a variety of bars, Roi-Et instead has a good amount of wats (Thai temples) In fact, it seems one cannot walk 5 minutes in the city without seeing one.

The wats here as really beautiful too. Being in Thailand for 9 months now, I've gotten quite used to seeing these intricate buildings and the wonder they inspire in me has lessened over time. This hasn't been the case in Roi-Et though. Despite the amount of temples in the city, none of them are what I would call "typical" wats. In fact, every wat seems to have little nuances in the architecture that make them standout. One wat for instance has "guardians" with black skin. I've seen lot's of giant guardian statues in wats but I've never seen dark ones. My friend's Ej and Liz were able to take pictures of these peculiar guardian statues and when I obtain a copy, I'll be sure to post them. There is also a beautiful Chinese style wat in Roi-Et and the tiles used in the roof and walls--an almost pastel blue like color--is very different from the traditional Thai style wat.

The most popular wat however in the city would have to be the wat with the giant Buddha structure. The wat itself is pretty much like most of the wats I've seen in Thailand but beside it is the tallest standing Buddha in Northeastern thailand (some people claim that it's the tallest in all of Thailand)

There is actually a staircase where visitors can go up to the feet of the giant Buddha and I've been told that sometimes, the monks will even allow you to climb yet another staircase that takes you up to the knees of the statue where one can get a view of the entire city! I have yet to do this though it's something I hope to accomplish before my time in Roi-Et is done. When Caitlin was here, we did get to go up to the feet and the view from there was pretty impressive--not as impressive as the statue's feet though!


Another must see in Roi Et (and if anyone just meanders around for 15 minutes, one is bound to come across it) is Bung Palanchai lake. Just as Roi-Et is located in the very heart of Isan (Northeastern Thailand) this beautiful lake is in the very heart of Roi-Et. I read a travel brochure that described Bung Palanchai as being "just as beautiful as any lake in the west" While I'm not entirely sure about that statement, I must admit that I think Bung Palanchai is absolutely gorgeous and anyone who visits--be they from the west or the east--is sure to be impressed. Life in Roi-Et pretty much revolves around this lake. It's a great place for families to spend time together and for young (and old) lovers to hang out. It's a great place for sports as well. In the centre of the lake is an impressive walking Buddha statue and I've seen alot of Thai folks having picnics by it. Here are two more pictures around the lake area.

6 months!

Recently I had a nice little surprise. I found an old CD that contained pictures of my first few months in site. Looking at the pictures, I realized just how much I have experienced in the 6 months that I have lived in my village.

I've had interesting meals

and met interesting people.

I've even met interesting people having interesting meals.

I’ve discovered new flavors of ice cream

and seen new ways of fishing

I’ve introduced kids to a sport I've always held dear

and they’ve introduced me to their favorite holiday

Learning about the culture has been fascinating!

From dancing

to parades




to dancing in parades




from honoring monks

to honoring structures

It's been fun

Maybe a little too fun....

Living in a village has its share of interesting and "crappy" moments—that’s just outside my door and that’s the culprit

But its mostly a very rewarding experience
It helps that I believe in my work

And that I enjoy the people I work with (most of the time)

And that I enjoy the people I work for (all the time)

Basically, life in the village has been pretty sweet....

...and pretty chill

A Blackout Story

So I’m watching the West Wing when the power suddenly goes out. It’s fine (blackouts are a common occurrence during the rainy season) until I realize that my house is the only one without power. Across the street, I can see several villagers huddled in my neighbor’s house watching a Thai television show. I tell my landlady that my power is out. She in turn tells her brother in law who then tells his father in law (my landlady’s father). My landlady’s mother (who I refer to as my grandmother) finds out and tells her cousin (who I also refer to as my grandmother). Pretty soon, I have my landlady, my grandfather, my uncle, and my two grandmothers either trying to ask me why my power is out or why they think my power is out. Of course, I do not understand much of what they are saying. I find my dictionary and with the help of my flashlight I look for the word “fuse”.

“Ah! Fui!” says grandfather and he takes me behind the house right by the cows. “Ni” he points to what I imagine is the fuse box. Only it looks less like a fuse box than it does a mini power station: a whole cluster of wires, more than a few switches, and more wires. He starts poking around and, not finding any solution, he takes me to another corner, behind the tractor. Again, I see another power station. There is a cluster of hay, and wood, and scrap metal that he has to navigate through as he pokes around. Worried that my grandfather might electrocute himself, I browse through the dictionary and find the word for electrician. “Mi chang fai fa mai?” I ask him.

“Kaw ja ma” grandfather answers, “he is coming.”

I have no idea how or when my grandfather got to contact him but stranger things have happened in Thailand. “Muaray?” I ask “when?”

“Mai nenon” he answers, "Not sure."

Such an answer in Thailand can pretty much mean the electrician is coming sometime in the next 72 hours.

Soon more villagers come. My neighbor from across the street who is pretty drunk (it is 8:30 PM after all—which means he has been drinking for roughly 5 hours) starts poking around the power stations; pulling on wires and flicking switches. I worry for him too. After several attempts he looks at me and offers a shrug.

Grandmother number one comes aside and, in a whisper almost, asks “Non ti ban dai mai?" She wants me to sleep in their house.

At this point, with the odds of me getting my power back getting slimmer with every poke and flicker of the switches, I start entertaining the idea of sleeping in my hammock. But before I can express this to grandmother, I see that my landlady is already shooing her kids away from the living room and sweeping her floor. They offer me a mosquito net. How can I refuse?

I tell them that I’ll just grab a quick shower—since the power of the village is still on, I know that I at least have running water at home. While my only source of light is my flashlight, there is enough light for me to notice little shadows running around the drain area. I shine the light and see a whole family of cockroaches running out of and around the drain. I grab a mop close by and with mop in one hand and the flashlight in the other (and the shower head between my neck and shoulders), I start attacking, hurting some and killing a few. The survivors run back inside the drain. I continue with my shower paying careful attention to whatever else might decide to come out of the drain (I’ve had centipedes and huge lizards in the past). The rest of the shower however, is uneventful.

I bring a small foldable mattress and my electric fan to my neighbors place. I notice my sleeping area has several spiders around but I am too tired to bother doing anything. I crawl under the collapsible mosquito net they have provided for me and attempt to take my fan inside. My fan is a little too big for the collapsible net they give me and I’m left with two choices: sleep in the heat or take my fan under the net and risk spiders crawling under the gap between the net and the floor. I decide to take my chances with the spiders.

I swat a few mosquitoes (they have penetrated the net), flick a few bugs (they have crawled under) and shoo a cat away (I have no idea where she came from) before I drift to sleep—thankful for the little lull in my posh corps existence.

Grasshopper Eating Students and a Terrified Volunteer

Spot Scene

I remember a book I once read (it may have been a poem) that talked about spot scenes: certain scenes from one’s life—usually pleasant—that are preserved in memory and are quite easy to conjure up… sort of like the “happy place” from Happy Gilmore. I’ve been blessed to have several spot scenes: watching the last sunset of the millennium by a pier in the Philippines with my mom and younger siblings; hiking up a hill in the middle of the night (quite inebriated of course) with college buddies; following the Isis’ gentle stream in Oxford on the way to the Trout; several moments with Caitlin; and many more. Lately, there has been one scene in particular from Thailand—not a single moment per se but a moment that occurs quite frequently—that has taken its place among my favorites. It is a scene that is always new and yet so familiar. A passage from another book I recently read describes it best. I don’t remember the exact words but it’s something to this effect: it (the scene I speak about) is like a new song that is played while you are asleep—you hear it when you awake for the first time…a strange song and yet you know it well.

And the scene is this:

I walk through a road surrounded by rice fields. It is the rainy season and the rice fields are lush carpets of green with hints of red, and yellow, and golden brown strewn about. Above me, the sky is clear save for a few well-fed clouds playfully making shapes. My students walk beside me laughing; teaching me Thai words while I teach them English. We laugh together as we avoid cow patties and little dead snakes on the road. Every now and then, rice farmers will pass us, heading home after a long day in the fields, their makeshift tractors coated in mud, old shirts still wrapped around their heads. They look at me and while all I can see is their eyes, I see them smile with appreciation. They know why I am here. I smile back, glad to be a part of their children’s lives…and thankful that they are a part of mine. My students and I keep walking. We pass little ponds filled with beautiful lilies and wave at other kids biking by, three kids to a bike…sometimes even four. The boys talk to me of David Beckham and the girls show me key chains of Korean and Japanese pop stars. The girls giggle as they push each other to invite me to their homes to drink water. Every now and then, they will ask me, “Do you love Mali?” (Mali, which is Thai for Jasmine, is the nickname my community gave Caitlin during her visit). They all swoon and giggle when I say “yes.” I walk some more as my students run around picking random fruit from trees and bushes, trying to get me to taste them. They stop insisting as soon as I give them the English name for the fruit and instead focus their energies on trying to pronounce the new words correctly. We laugh some more and we keep laughing until we reach the main road. Here, they all scurry off to their homes, but not without saying “goodbye teacher” and giving me a wai. I watch them walk off before I hop on my bike and head home.
It is a beautiful scene—always new and yet so familiar.

Like a new song that is played while I am asleep—I hear it when I awake for the first time…a strange song and yet one I know quite well.

Ultimate Ultimate Frisbee

Here’s an idea to assess a foreign language learner’s proficiency—have the language learner teach children who speak nothing but the target language a new game. And I’m not talking about Snakes and Ladders here or even Dodge Ball. No. I’m thinking more along the lines of hmm, say…Ultimate Frisbee. If anything, it will be entertaining. Believe me, I should know.

It was innocuous enough at first. I was passing the Frisbee around with two students and after a while, when I noticed they were getting bored, I decided to teach them Frisbee Golf. I figured it would be a fun, easy game to explain…which it was. It was also tremendously boring given the fact that my two playmates had no idea whatsoever on how to throw a frisbee. Soon, a little crowd gathered to watch the foreigner and two of their friends throw the “UFO” at trees (yup, that’s what they called it. They don’t quite understand what “paper” or “blue pen” means but they all know “UFO”). Anyhow, I soon notice the energy level dropping again. So I get the brilliant idea of introducing Ultimate Frisbee. I figure since there’s a bunch of kids, I can get them all involved. I say the word “teams” which they all understand and they begin running towards me wanting to be on my team (I am the cool, UFO wielding foreigner after all). To be fair, I tell the 5th graders to go be on the other team and I stick myself with two 3rd graders, a 1st grader, a 4th grader who looked like he could be beaten up by the 1st grader , and a 6th grader (I wasn’t about to give away all the talent).

After 5 minutes (and a million gestures…think charades) of trying to explain the game in Thai, I noticed that the kids were getting antsy (I don’t blame them. I was getting antsy just listening to myself).

“Kao jai mai?” I finally ask them, “Do you understand?”
“Kao jai!” they shout, excited that we might actually get started before the cows come back to graze in the field (This is an interesting point. Not only is this field the school field, but also the community soccer field, and a popular spot for the cows to graze on.)

So we play. Of course, it becomes clear to me that I might have left out one not too minor detail when I gave the rules: that dropped catches are an automatic turn over. You’d think I’d pick up on this right away (I am a pretty smart guy after all) but I was just so excited to be expanding these kids’ cultural and physical horizons that it took three of my kids literally diving for the rolling frisbee and then wrestling each other in the ground for possession to make me realize I had missed a key rule. One very cool thing about Thai kids though (and I think this is probably true of kids everywhere) is that they just like having fun. And wrestling for a frisbee amidst a field strung generously with cow dung is…well, fun! Kids don’t like getting caught up in all the technical nuances of a game. Just let us play is their collective mindset. So play we did. And it was an absolute blast! Sure, some kids got pretty banged up and a lot of knees were scraped, but they loved it. Plus, my little rules blunder actually worked out because no one knew how to throw the frisbee anyway! The disc spent more time rolling on the ground than soaring in the air. As long as it got anywhere remotely close to the designated end zone, there was always a kid willing to take it for the team who would jump on top of the frisbee (thereby sacrificing scrapes and bruises and ensuring that their mother would have more laundry to do) thus securing possession and therefore earning a point.
It was an afternoon filled with fun and laughter and I was reminded of two facts of life:

1) Kids are absolutely fantastic
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2) I may have my work cut out for me when it comes to learning Thai but damnit, I make for an incredible charades player.