Thailand's Prizes: Part One

With less than a month left here in the Land of Thighs, I've begun compiling a list of my favorite things here: from foods to places and tiny Asian people, I will miss these things most when I return to where the Wild Things aren't. 

1. Jumong

Educators aren't typically supposed to pick a favorite student and should be objective and blah blah... but well, I think that's horse shit. I have a favorite color, a favorite food, why can't I have a favorite small Asian child? So I do. His name is Jumong (Jew-mong) and he's the weirdest student other than Brazil who speaks in robot linguistics, incessantly repeating "Cut the Rope" and TeTe who disrobes completely front and center in the classroom before using the toilet. I've tried to communicate that he only need unbutton his shorts, but the little exhibitionist feigns ignorance in favor of displaying his unmentionables to his peers. Anyway, Jumong has a head the size of a cantaloupe on top of which rests a thick helmet of black hair, contrasting uncharacteristically non-Thai milk white skin. I'm certain he's got some Korean orJapanese in him and is surely the prototype for the perfect robot child. And not just because he zombie walks everywhere and spastically moves like a broken transformer action figure and I like teaching him novelty dance moves to watch him jerk about like a beached sea lion with Parkinson's. In my eyes, Jumong can do no wrong and although I try to keep my love for him subtle, the other students must wonder why Jumong's homework comes in the form of "Hug for teacher Arex!" From the laugher that sputters from his stomach and out of his mouth sounding like a squirrel caught in the spokes of a bicycle tire to his child's excuse for a monobrow and the way he swallows each word before he speaks it making him sound like a talking Big Gulp, Jumong lights up my days with his lantern of lunacy and I've hinted to his mother that I'd gladly take him should she relocate to Antarctica or undergo a lobotomy. 

2.Scout Day

EveryWednesday is scout day. Students from all schools dress in their gender respective scout attire: khaki colored shorts and shirts with burnt orange shoes, brown socks, a blue bandana, a ranger hat for the boys and a blue skirt and top and nurse's bonnet for the girls. The scout activities commence promptly at 3pm and I'm still not 100% sure as to their function. Sometimes a pregnant lady wearing a matching scoutmasters uniform beats a gong while boys march and flamboyant teacher Bandit practices his karaoke poses. Other times they camp inside classrooms in the school on weekends and make food on grills. (Serious survival tactics being executed) Other days teams of prepubescents fly head first into inanimate objects during blindfolded piggy pack races, boys battle eachother with wooden poles Jedi style, while a group of younger boys sit silently in rows holding up the "Scout's Honor" hand gesture for twenty straight minutes while two female teachers trade gossip and curry recipes. 

3. Som Tam

Known to we Farang as "papaya salad," Som Tam is one of Thailand's signature dishes. Usually a burly woman or poorly disguised Ladyboy deposits the ingredients into a mortar and beats it to submission like a baby seal. Shaved green papaya, lime, 2-3 chilis, palm sugar, garlic, fish sauce, tamarind paste, tiny dried shrimps and peanuts are all smashed together until they form a delicious salad spicy enough to sprout chest hair on an infant. I first made the mistake of ordering mine "Thai Style" and was more than a little terrified when a woman deposited what appeared to be claws into my salad. Did that broad just throw a tarantula into my lunch? Well, not quite. But she did throw in some dried crab claws that add an extra fish aftertaste (not my favorite thing in the world.) Thankfully, Som Tam and I have moved beyond that treacherously scarring incident and our relationship has blossomed. Even if one of us leaves the other with heartburn, sweat stains and scorched lips. I can't do much about my addiction at this point. The hotter the better. And it literally takes my tongue swelling and physically not being able to deposit the rest of my meal into my mouth before I'll give up. Eating Som Tam is more like a marathon than a casual dinner and nobody likes a wuss. 

4. Kai Dow

I was reluctant to immediately delve into another one of my Thai food addictions as not to appear overanxious about my next meal, but let's be honest, that's all I'm thinking about at 6pm. Kai Dow is basically a fried egg except for a special difference: you can slap it literally on top of ANYTHING and make your meal instantaneously better. Kai Dow Dat has become a common saying between our friends as we accept that eggs are no longer pigeonholed into the breakfast category. Pad Thai? Kai Dow it. Fried Rice? Kai Dow dat. Som Tam? Well, you get the picture. Two months from now when I walk into a Taco Bell and order a Quesadilla, bean burrito and Nachos and ask the cashier to toss a fried egg onto each item for the unarguable price of 30 cents and they look at me like I just asked them to prepare my meal using only their big toe and a spoon, I may just tear up a bit. 

5. My Motorbike

The first time I braved the morning commute to work I probably shaved 5 years off of my lifespan from the stress alone. Other motorbikes propelling around at unnecessary velocities, massive trucks weaving in and out of poorly drawn yellow lines, bus drivers holding up lines of traffic to pick their wedgies and endless pot holes filled with gravel. I quickly realized I was in the largest, most important game of Frogger in my life and I can't afford to make one wrong hop. The mindset on the roads here is that the other person always sees you and will yield to your demand. I wonder how people in America will respond to me flicking my wrist to the left indicating that as we speak I intend to cross all four lanes unencumbered. Coupled with the trepidation noted above, the roads of Thailand are littered with WTF situations, people and objects. A family of 6 glide through the lanes like a well practiced bobsled team while a truck full of pineapples plows into a billboard advertising fish flavored Pop-tarts. A van with a the words PEE WATER written in bold and decoratively adhered to the back of this man's windshield races another car with the Che Guevarra's face artistically splayed across the bumper. Not only am I fighting for my life, but I'm greeted with a billion things I'd like to snap photos of for concrete evidence when my future psychiatrist wonders why I associate raw meat with wind. Well, Doc, on my morning commute I'd occasionally witness slabs of hanging meat dancing in the breeze from their respective hooks while their merchant hastily makes his way to the market where he'll peddle the debris-covered animal flesh to my fried chicken lady. 

Rock Candy

I'm strapped into a purple diaper apparatus like the ones used to twirl carnival goers three swings past dizzy but the chain line safety line is replaced by a small girl holding a rope. Clipped onto my harness dangle metal 'beaners' each with a small tag bearing the comforting message, "warning: climbing is dangerous." no advice of making the situation less hazardous, just the simple statement of its peril.

Florida is flat. The loftiest rocks are the ones decoratively adhered onto the walls of stone dwellings. Clearly I knew rock climbing was a thing people do. Unshaven hippies in far off lands who bead jewelry made from tree bark and protest outside butcheries. Until I moved Thailand I'd never met a "climber” and never entertained the idea that I could ascend anything other than staircases. Then I met an assemblage of folks whose idea of a great weekend involves scaling the side of large cliffs. I'm terrified of heights; even balconies find me bolted upright against the back wall rather than peering below at the stark image of my imprint in the asphalt. But after 9 months of discomfort, conquering fears begins to come naturally with this “well, I’m here, why not?” adopted mentality for people abroad.

The more my friends discussed dangling above the incredibly humbling images of nature’s infinite belongings, the more I desired to grasp the feeling that left my climber friends with this drunken euphoria. My friend and coworker Jill has been climbing for nearly a decade and offered to take Lindsay and I whenever we decided to go. With the number of weekends dwindling, I asked Jill if she could squeeze in a beginner’s climb. When she agreed, we were ecstatic. She rattled off terms like belay, draws, crag, routes; but my mind refused to preserve any information other than the prospect of an untimely death.

So we boarded the ferry to Koh PhiPhi, a smaller island near our own, where the movie The Beach was filmed, for all you Leo fanatics (Allie). As Lindsay and I later discussed, we knew nothing of climbing other than listening in on conversations between our friends; therefore zero knowledge transferred to zero expectations. I didn't know what falling would feel like or if I could even manage to hoist my body a foot off the ground.

So I’m strapped into my purple diaper, sweating profusely and rubbing chalk on my clammy palms to create some grip for my carnie hands. I'm not sure why I didn't realize that there would have to be someone holding onto my body weight from below, clearly I wasn't bitten by a radioactive spider and given the ability to scale walls with sticky ease, but the image of Jill who barely weighs more than the kindergarteners she teaches sent a twinge to my fingers, which began to dance erratically upon the first grope of stone. I know she's capable of "belaying" me, but I couldn't help but wish I’d eaten a smaller lunch.

Seeing a coworker, whose contemplative attitude some people often take as a sign of disinterest, in her element was inspiring. She went from Jill the kindergarten teacher to climber Jill, scaling rock walls with the greatest of ease like some sort of modern day superhero monkey. I’m belaying as she sets our routes effortlessly, tiptoeing about ledges about as wide as a thumb and navigating up the cliff with the poise of the a ballet dancing mountain goat. She springs to the top of the route in what seemed like seconds and then she’s back on the ground tying the rope onto my diaper. She hooks herself up with the belaying equipment and shoots me the expectant “okay, get your ass on the rock” look.

Is there any special way I should go?

            Try to grab the spots with the most chalk.

Oh, that makes sense.

I step up onto the ledge and so it begins. I grip the first “hand hold” which is more like a tiny outcry of rock wide enough for a lizard to sunbathe. I hoist my leg into a crevice that seems fit for a foot. It continues this way: just the rocks and me. I caress and grope them like an estranged lover searching for an ounce of forgiveness and when given a little leeway, I hold on for dear life. I manage to rise a good distance when, in response to the shouts of encouragement and advice, I look down. I realize that coupled with the distance we had to climb to reach the base of the climb: I’m up pretty effing high. My limbs begin to involuntarily tremble and I turn back to face the peace of the wall. There all I see are slits and crannies where I have to wedge my hands and feet if I hope to reach the top.

Reaching the top never seemed like a possibility, but I soon assumed the calm learned from months of yoga coupled with the thai “mai bpen rai” (thai version of hakuna matata) outlook on life. I breathed deeply and relaxed as much as one can suspended above solid ground, and let my fingers search for safety and my feet attain stability. Finally, I made it to the top! I sat back in the harness, now confident that little Jill could bear my body weight… well less confident and more physically exhausted and in need of a skyview seat to paradise. I turned to face an hourglass of beaches congratulating the motivation I’d discovered on this rock wall with a tranquility achieved through conquered experience. I sat back in my hanging lay-z-boy and took in all the thoughts rushing through my head.

To be honest it was two thoughts. 1. I have a terribly unpickable wedgie and 2: this is really gosh darn incredible. I finally understood why people would choose to hoist their body weight into exceedingly narrow spaces while irrigating the lands below with corpulent beads of perspiration, suspended solely by the weight of another human.

For our second climbing expedition we headed to the spectacular Tonsai: a climbing Mecca for evolved primates from around the world. A pristine strip of beach enclosed by towering stacks of rock unscathed by the hassles of modern day society—an entire place run on power from generators! A t-shirt in one of four corner shops reads “I’m leaving Tonsai tomorrow! …maybe.” And so is the mindset in this magical place. A community of climbers awakens before 9 am to beat the masses at Mama Chicken, where a prehistoric Thai woman whips up delectable entrees in a small shack with her family while climbers plot their routes and ready their equipment. Then the crowd parts like a bad comb over and everyone scatters to the various walls along the beach. Resting routes with names like “groove tube,” “lion king” and “mystic snow” now find rock dwellers scaling their façade with newfound energy from Mama Chicken’s muesli and fruit shakes. Shouts of encouragement and “beta” rise from the ground, sometimes finding the climber other times dissipating into the muggy atmosphere, as the climber’s own mental concentration trumps any sound from below.

I failed to realized how much physical and mental strength I possessed until faced with the option to fight my way up or fall. The first fall is the most terrifying and after you realize the person on the other end of that rope can support your body weight, you continue assured that you’re safe. My friend Tim described his progress in climbing with by saying, “A fall used to be my hands started slipping and I let go, now a fall is when all my strength gives way and my arms give out.” I never thought I’d enjoy rock climbing let alone develop a compulsion. Discoveries like this make me appreciate living in a place where I can cultivate new talents and hobbies. I’ve learned so much about my likes and dislikes and changed by outlooks on so much. Instead of being wealthy, I want to be happy; instead of being thin, I want to be strong; and instead of waiting for the future, I want to clutch the now.

And as we sat in the long tail boat watching incredible Tonsai disappear in the distance, Jill reminded us in her ever-poetic use of her second language to “make a wish to the rocks.” But we won’t part for long. We’ll prepare for another climbing weekend soon, because as my Filipino poet says “we’ve got to keep our relationship with the rock.” And good relationships with rocks are always better than rocky relationships. 

Singapore: from island outhouse to modern penthouse.

If Steve Jobs, the Jetsons and an iPhone procreated, resulting in an Asian love child, that child would be Singapore. For the rare long weekend amidst 45-hour workweeks with small crayon-eaters, we decided to forgo another island weekend and headed from the outhouse to the penthouse, so to speak. After living the third world island life for nearly a year, I figured a city would be different, especially if that city happens to have more rules than a mosque, one of which forbidding gum chewing.

At first glance, Singapore (although actually an entire country) resembles any other big city. And then you realize it’s clean. And there are trees—3 million trees, to be exact. And you begin to realize that when planning this futuristic utopia, people had more in mind than just creating a financial and business Mecca within the chaos of southeast Asia; these people actually cared enough about the environment to nix the chopping of trees in favor of more buildings and decided to harness the positive aspects that spring from nature. And after pruning these 3 million trees, Singaporeans use the 80 tons of clippings as energy from the biomass boiler.

Our first day in this strange, clean place with garbage cans and people following traffic rules, we headed to the Gardens by the Bay—an ultramodern take on greenhouses. Two massive domes border the the bay and a hotel, which appears to be three large skyscrapers holding up a cruise ship preparing for flash floods like a modern day ark of paranoia. The first dome houses flowers and plants from sub-arid areas of five different continents and in the time it takes you to walk around this massive greenhouse of perpetual spring, you can view and learn about plants, flowers and trees from Australia, Africa, the Americas, Asia and Europe. Other than its aesthetic value, learning about botany rivals geology in things I’d rather chew shrapnel than participate in; but something about being inside a large transparent egg overlooking a futuristic city enveloped in cool air and picturesque man-made flowerbeds gives a feeling of protection against a world of encroaching entrepreneurial, industrial and technological pandemonium. 

The second pod recreates the feel and appearance of mountain scenery complete with a waterfall, misty mountain air and a large metal structure covered in various mosses, orchids, mountain shrubbery encircled by a small forest of conifers and evergreens. You clank up the metal steps and onto a walkway suspended in midair, winding around a bird’s eye view of the tops of trees and the side of a synthetic peak. It sounds completely mundane, but the truth is, the inspiration behind the structure had our minds reeling more than the structure itself.

It took nearly 6 years to develop and construct, opening only a month before our arrival. The idea blossomed from an entry in an international design competition in 2006. The best part of the entire place isn’t its physical grandeur or appearance, but the fact that it was created within this massive city as a means to educate people on the importance of environmental conservation. A projector on the way out timelines global warming into the future and illustrates its consequences affecting not only our habitat but also the habitats and lifelines for species all over the planet that will be wiped out if we continue heading in such a gloomy direction. I mean, I love the world of Nightmare Before Christmas, but that doesn’t mean I want to bunk with Jack Skellington. (That’s a lie, I totally do)

A forest of large “supertrees” creates a grove along the edge of the park. These metal structures look as if Tim Burton had been called in to design a set of eerie foliage for his next movie about corpse brides or skeleton cats. But the trees serve a purpose: they harvest solar energy powering their own light show each night.

I was blown away by the level of respect Singaporeans have for not only their uncontaminated country but also for the environment and the world in general. People follow the rules, they clean up after themselves and most importantly, they are mindful of the future and their roles in shaping it. For a city housing 5 million people, Singapore is creepily quiet, clean and unspoiled. And as lovely as that sounds, it made me more nervous than anything. Somewhere that quiet? That clean! Surely it’s a trap.

Luckily we were staying in little India and the hectic crowds of Indian people replaced the chaos of Thailand and gave us at least a little of the frenzied comfort of “home.” The endless shopping malls and multitudes of “glitchers” unable to set their smart phones down for three minutes reminded me of all the things I loathe about the consumerist society from which I cometh. Taunting me with harrowing images of home, I once again retreated into spiraling thoughts of returning home and the impending culture shock to ensue. Sure, it was nice feeling clean for the first time in nine months. And a little peace and quiet was welcomed, but the fact its, I’ve become so conditioned to the chaos that I don’t know anything else. And as we returned to our modest room to find our coffees from earlier crawling with 30 small cockroaches, rather than being angry and demanding to know why a relatively expensive room by Southeast Asian standards would be overrun with vermin, we all laughed because that’s the Asia we know and love. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Until I’m forced to rejoin western society in October, that is. Terrifying.

Don't know how I'm supposed to leave this.