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
----------and-----------

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.