Sunday nights I usually dine at SP Kitchen with my neighbor, Tim, and an older couple who work at the refugee's medical clinic, Elisabetta and Jonathan. The restaurant is very close to our homes and serves Thai, Burmese and Western food. Elisabetta, who is Italian, has taught the kitchen how to make pasta and other Italian dishes from scratch. She is responsible for half the menu there. Between the four of us, we know all the people who work there and, excluding the odd tourist who wanders in, usually all of the clients as well. It's not the Sunday night Jones family dinner, but it's as close as I'm going to get.
Last night, I did not have dinner at SP. Instead, I met Brooke and Patrick for dinner at the Stone Table, a restaurant closer into town with more tourists and a pricier menu. I hadn't eaten there yet, partially because of its lukewarm review, partially because it makes me think of the dead lions of Narnia. Initially Tim wasn't going to join us. He spent the whole day waiting around for a car to take him over the border to a covert celebration of Karen Revolution Day.
This is Mae Sot: eating dinner with a bunch of people, mentioning the holiday on Monday for the Revolution Day, someone says that they are going to watch the boxing in Karen State, over the river, inside Burma, someone else asks if they have any room in the car, and suddenly we are all planning an illegal border crossing under the protection of an armed rebel group to attend illegal anti-government festivities in a totalitarian state. What else did I have to do with my Sunday afternoon?
I'm laughing as I write that because it sounds so grand and dangerous and shocking. But this is Mae Sot and it would be impossible to live and work here without dealing with the armed rebel group in question in some shape or form. The leader, now getting on to retiring age and going senile, whose birthday was the cause of another recent holiday, is my friend's landlord. The education branch of the group runs all of the schools in the refugee camps along the border. Nobody sets up a school without going through them and giving them final management control over their school. I work in a school in a refugee camp, what does that tell you?
When I say "armed rebel group" though, you mustn't picture CIA covert operations, black vests and face paint, highly trained, coordinated units with high tech weapons. There is a reason this civil war drags on for generations. Both sides are under funded, under trained, uncoordinated and rife with inner tension and disagreements. They haven't died out for a good reason either, so it wouldn't pay to underestimate them, but they are by no means terribly effective, particularly when it comes to non-military tasks like organization. It quickly became apparent to me that our escort into Burma was not likely to happen. In order for me to go, someone had to arrange a certain number of cars and in order for it to be interesting, these cars had to arrive at a certain time. My faith in their ability to achieve this, for a few foreigners to watch some boxing, was very slim, so I quickly bailed and spent my day hanging out, working, cleaning, the usual Sunday activities. Tim, on the other hand, really thought he would be able to go. He is doing a photographic series on boxing and wanted pictures of Thai/Burmese fights in Thailand, on the border and inside Burma. He woke up at 6am to pack and prepare. By 6pm, I had him sitting on the floor drinking beer and telling me stories about why his embassy had to get him out of the country the last time he was in Burma, illegally filming in Rangoon. By 7pm, he abandoned all hope of seeing any Karen Revolution Day boxing and joined me for dinner.
When the four of us get together, my two co-workers, my neighbor and myself, things get crazy very quickly. We don't even order for half an hour because we are so busy with the jokes and stories and the gut laughter and the flowing beer. It takes me forever to make my announcement, the reason why I have arranged the dinner for that evening.
"Here's to Mae Sot," I said, raising my glass. "Sign me up for another year of this!"
The occasion clearly called for a night of tequila and chili shots at Khun's, our favorite bar, where no one is surprised by the news, but everyone is happy. We drink our beer, we take our shots. We talk and talk and laugh and if I were even to repeat half of the stories it would make a book that no one would ever believe. Why am I staying in a small border town in the middle of nowhere? Where else on earth can I find this much color?
When I say that I am staying, it's actually a pretty nebulous concept at this point. We should be able to pull together funding, although that's a bit dicey. Because we have so little funding for teacher's salaries and the living conditions are, ahem, "not ideal," it will be difficult to find qualified, adaptable teachers. The organization that helps us with camp passes and logistics may go under this year. Blah, blah, blah. I signed myself up for a project that may not run at all but I signed myself up to try and keep it running. And lets be honest, I didn't "sign" anything. If I wanted to sign a contract, I would have to draw it up between myself and myself. "How much will you be getting paid?" someone asked, because they thought my decision would come down to money. The real question is, "Will I get paid?" Come on, if you knew all these answers, would it be nearly so interesting?
I think some people are worried that I am giving up my dreams to hang out here on the border. I'm not. I'm here for another year and while I'm here, I have a plan to make the school self sustaining, so I can walk away after graduation next year, and know it will stay alive. All my dreams, which are always changing anyways, will still be there for me. One of those dreams is picking up a few of these amazing journalists and photographers around here and heading to the India / Pakistan border, so if there are dreams out there of me coming home soon, I'm afraid its rather unlikely. Meanwhile, I am going to have one hell of an experience here, learning to manage a school, recruiting teachers, getting funding and taking a few shots of tequila and chili when the going gets rough. It's going to be great.
I'm looking at getting a cheap flight home for a bit in May to see friends and I will definitely be home at the end of July to see family, so I am not disappearing into the ether. Thailand is a great place to travel and if you are in my neighborhood, I have a house that is not in a refugee camp, which is open any time. The letters and packages and emails have been amazing. It's certainly not all rose here and every word from home helps me through.
Who would have thought? Wake up one morning with a cancelled plane ticket and mononucleosis, end up on the Thai border taking on a school.
You gotta love it!
Monday, January 31, 2005
Monday, January 24, 2005
Hanging Out
By the Resevoir
Each weekend I come back from the refugee camp, I stuff my face with delicious Thai food. As a result, despite the constant rice diet up at camp, yours truly is finding herself a little chubbier as time goes on. Actually, I may not have even noticed if it hadn't been the topic of conversation everywhere I went last week, from my student's cheery comments on how curvey and lovely I look these days to the tailor remarking that she would have to remesure me soon. And if we are going to be honnest, it's true, my pants don't fit anymore.
Rather than stop eating (why on earth would I do that?) I just need to pick up a little exercise. As a result, last weekend found me on my mountain bike, cruising through the rice paddies on the way out to the Mae Paw resevoir, where you will find me hanging out in the above photograph. I rode out there, which took me about an hour on a nice, windy, flat road; then went for a fabulous swim in the cool, but slightly muddy water. The goal was to get out there once a week, but this weekend I have been biking along other paths. I discovered a wealth of migrant farm workers, hidden sweatshops and small factories not far from my home along the road I live on, along with a dump. I got some very surprised looks as I took the bike from paved roads to gravel to bumpy dirt tracks through the feilds. I saw chili plantations and cauliflowers and feilds and feilds of rice.
After the Crash
This is a picture of the rail way tracks after the bus crash. Notice the severed traffic barrier lying on the road. It's wonderful to start the year off by being thankful for remaining unimpaled.
This week I am running out of internet time, but there are more photos online now and I invite you to look. Also, I invite you to use the COMMENTS section of this blog to let me know: Should I stay or should I go?
Next week I have to give my decision: do I stay in Mae Sot and take over the English Immersion Program school or do I move onto other missions, other countries, India perhaps, Canada maybe, travel, writing? What do you think? I could use some imput.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Elephants
Natasha, an American who coordinates the production of the Human Rights Book on Burma, arrived at our table at the Night Market to find an elephant at our table. Mel, a feisty friend of mine from the UK who travels to camps all along the border on an education project, had a scowl on her face. She was yelling at the man on top of the elephant in Thai. The woman who owns the food stall we were eating at came out and joined her in the yelling. A crowd of young children had condensed in the area (there is always a crowd of them in the Night Market running around throwing stones at the dogs, yelling, playing, watching Power Rangers on one of the restaurant's TV's. Perhaps Thailand has an all-Power-Rangers/ all-Mutant-Ninja-Turtles station, it always seems to be on.) There is a tiny, mangy, puppy asleep at my feet. It is terribly cute, but all the same, I hope it doesn't have fleas. This is the same place the man fired his gun into the air a month ago to avoid paying for his dinner and tonight's entertainment is the elephant, or, at least, that is what we are supposed to believe.
Elephants in Thailand are smaller than the African variety and fairly functional. They do not roam over romantic landscapes trumpeting and stampeding to make the ground shake, or, at least, not to my knowledge. They help with construction projects and farming and any labor that requires strong muscles that they can be harnessed to. So you can come across elephants in the strangest places: towing jeeps out of the mud deep in the jungle, for example. However, they are also used to get tourist dollars. So they can be found deep in the heart of Bangkok as well.
I am told that an elephant can hear an apple fall over eight kilometers away. Even if this is partially true, what it must be like for an elephant to walk along one of the busiest streets in Bangkok, where I saw an elephant last, must be unimaginable. Their feet, like humans, is tough flesh, not bone, so the heat of the sidewalk must be intense. Yet there they are, walking through the city with someone riding on their head, offering rides for a fee, and selling bags of bananas to feed to the elephant. And here is one such elephant, standing near our table in the Mae Sot Night Market.
This elephant has small, dark eyes and is extremely dirty. The children are half afraid of it and half in awe. It makes them excited. They dart up to it and race back. They are doing strange dances and screaming and laughing. Mel tells the man sitting on the elephant's head to take the elephant away and give it a wash. The restaurant owner sounds angry also.
So the elephant turns it's great head and ambles slowly through the traffic out of the Night Market and into the night. Natasha sits down, looking confused. We order food for our Friday night dinner. And it's just another night out in Mae Sot.
Elephants in Thailand are smaller than the African variety and fairly functional. They do not roam over romantic landscapes trumpeting and stampeding to make the ground shake, or, at least, not to my knowledge. They help with construction projects and farming and any labor that requires strong muscles that they can be harnessed to. So you can come across elephants in the strangest places: towing jeeps out of the mud deep in the jungle, for example. However, they are also used to get tourist dollars. So they can be found deep in the heart of Bangkok as well.
I am told that an elephant can hear an apple fall over eight kilometers away. Even if this is partially true, what it must be like for an elephant to walk along one of the busiest streets in Bangkok, where I saw an elephant last, must be unimaginable. Their feet, like humans, is tough flesh, not bone, so the heat of the sidewalk must be intense. Yet there they are, walking through the city with someone riding on their head, offering rides for a fee, and selling bags of bananas to feed to the elephant. And here is one such elephant, standing near our table in the Mae Sot Night Market.
This elephant has small, dark eyes and is extremely dirty. The children are half afraid of it and half in awe. It makes them excited. They dart up to it and race back. They are doing strange dances and screaming and laughing. Mel tells the man sitting on the elephant's head to take the elephant away and give it a wash. The restaurant owner sounds angry also.
So the elephant turns it's great head and ambles slowly through the traffic out of the Night Market and into the night. Natasha sits down, looking confused. We order food for our Friday night dinner. And it's just another night out in Mae Sot.
'Tis the Season
There are three seasons in this region on Thailand: cold season, hot season and rainy season.
"In other camps, this is the time of year when we put all of our things in a bag every night …"
It is in between cold season and hot season. In cold season, we have been waking up to ten degree mornings full of mist. The water in the buckets is too cold to wash with and we sleep with at least three blankets, the girls all huddled together in their room for warmth. In rainy season, all the roads turn into mudslides and no body leaves their house unless they have to. We live high on a hill, so it is almost guaranteed that you will slip and get covered in mud at some point. I am told that nothing every dries. Even clothes in a closet get covered in mold because of all the moisture in the air. In hot season, the road is a cloud of dust that sticks to your sweat. Even if you don't do anything but sit in your house, you will sweat. I think, ah, perhaps people in other camps put their things in a bag at night because it will get so dusty in hot season that everything will get dirty. Our camp, being high in the mountains, is cooler than all the other refugee camps, so perhaps this is why we do not need to make sure all of our things are in a bag.
"… We put all of our things in bags and we plan where we will run with them if the soldiers come to burn our camp."
There is hot season and cold season and rainy season and this is the season for soldiers to burn the camps down. This is the season that camps full of bamboo houses and thatch burn best.
Already there are reports of armed groups clashing with Burmese troops further North, but everything here is all rumor. Even those who have just returned from working in the North are unsure what is happening there.
Almost all of my students have survived one such camp burning and they remember it well. One night over dinner in casual voices, we discuss where we would run if the soldiers came to Umphiem. We are high on the hill with not many houses behind us. Then there is a field and the jungle. I say, "I would run uphill and hide in the jungle, that would be good, no?" My students laugh at me. "If the soldiers come, they will first surround the camp. You will run right into them." That evening, after dinner, I sit outside in front of the classroom and look down on the valley. Where would I run? Everywhere there are houses. If the houses burn, there is nowhere to run.
Umphiem Mai is high in the mountains, eight kilometers over extremely hilly terrain overland to the border with Burma. Along passable roads, which are windy, small and difficult, it is over two hours from the official border crossing and at least an hour from the nearest spot to cross by boat. We have very little to fear. I would not have Thai permission to live there if there were any danger. This season, we will probably not be burned, but we are the lucky ones.
"In other camps, this is the time of year when we put all of our things in a bag every night …"
It is in between cold season and hot season. In cold season, we have been waking up to ten degree mornings full of mist. The water in the buckets is too cold to wash with and we sleep with at least three blankets, the girls all huddled together in their room for warmth. In rainy season, all the roads turn into mudslides and no body leaves their house unless they have to. We live high on a hill, so it is almost guaranteed that you will slip and get covered in mud at some point. I am told that nothing every dries. Even clothes in a closet get covered in mold because of all the moisture in the air. In hot season, the road is a cloud of dust that sticks to your sweat. Even if you don't do anything but sit in your house, you will sweat. I think, ah, perhaps people in other camps put their things in a bag at night because it will get so dusty in hot season that everything will get dirty. Our camp, being high in the mountains, is cooler than all the other refugee camps, so perhaps this is why we do not need to make sure all of our things are in a bag.
"… We put all of our things in bags and we plan where we will run with them if the soldiers come to burn our camp."
There is hot season and cold season and rainy season and this is the season for soldiers to burn the camps down. This is the season that camps full of bamboo houses and thatch burn best.
Already there are reports of armed groups clashing with Burmese troops further North, but everything here is all rumor. Even those who have just returned from working in the North are unsure what is happening there.
Almost all of my students have survived one such camp burning and they remember it well. One night over dinner in casual voices, we discuss where we would run if the soldiers came to Umphiem. We are high on the hill with not many houses behind us. Then there is a field and the jungle. I say, "I would run uphill and hide in the jungle, that would be good, no?" My students laugh at me. "If the soldiers come, they will first surround the camp. You will run right into them." That evening, after dinner, I sit outside in front of the classroom and look down on the valley. Where would I run? Everywhere there are houses. If the houses burn, there is nowhere to run.
Umphiem Mai is high in the mountains, eight kilometers over extremely hilly terrain overland to the border with Burma. Along passable roads, which are windy, small and difficult, it is over two hours from the official border crossing and at least an hour from the nearest spot to cross by boat. We have very little to fear. I would not have Thai permission to live there if there were any danger. This season, we will probably not be burned, but we are the lucky ones.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Dead Head
Another Friday in the Mae Sot office sipping tea and eating sticky rice and fried bananas. I have a lot of work to do this weekend. On top of the usual marking and lesson planning, I have to write the final trimester exam for this week and make up a review sheet, as well as start planning the next units. So even though this week's blog will be short, it hardly means I am hard at work. Instead, I am distracting myself with the usual means available, journaling, talking with people in the office, waiting in line at the post office, taking a long lunch break for Pat Thai and iced lemon beverages…
I managed to upload three photographs from Lopburi, a town about three hours by train north of Bangkok. It's a small town with not a lot to it, however, the ancient Khmer ruins really are beautiful. I spent a great deal of time contemplating them as I waiting for the imaginary replacement bus to pick us up after the bus accident.
Dead Baby
Also in this week's photos is "Dead Head," which, if left unexplained, may cause some confusion. "Dead Head," as you can imagine, really is someone's head. Since it is encased in a block of plastic and embalming fluid, clearly the person is dead. I'm not sure if you can tell from the photograph or not, but there is a bullet hole going through the brain. This is the result of one of Ilse's missions. Of all the sights and attractions in the wild city of Bangkok, she wanted to see the museum of dead people. There was a head with an axe in it, she claimed. This museum was not written up in her Lonely Planet, nor in my Rough Guide, so it took some sleuthing on both of our parts. Luckily, we are both good sleuths with a fair amount of luck. For those wanting to retrace our steps and in the vicinity of Bangkok, the Forsenic Museum is found in the Siriaj Hospital. Our trip there involved a pleasant boat taxi along the river, out of the head and stifling atmosphere of the Bangkok streets. Unfortunately, we arrived just as the museum was closing. But the poor lady at the desk was no match for this dynamic duo and we persuaded her with our pathetic looks and dashing charm (certainly not with our eloquent Thai that’s for sure) to let us in for a few minutes only. "We just want to see the head with the axe in it," Ilse explained earnestly. "You understand? Axe?" she said, miming it out for the lady.
Success. We were let in without having to pay the admission fee and we ran through the unlit museum looking for the axed head. I was quickly distracted from that particular object of our quest by a floating baby with a massive head wound and the desiccated corpses of murderers and rapists hanging in the gallery. The lights were turned off and we ran rampant through the unlit corridors among the dead bodies, flashing our cameras as we went. Actually, as the security guard came around to kick us out, we learned that photography is not permitted in the museum. "Please, the museum is closing," said the man in the uniform. "Please, no cameras."
"Yes, yes, we're coming," we replied, starting towards the exit. "Oooohh, look!" I exclaim. "A severed leg!" Click! Click!
Dead Head
Ok so it sounds totally weird and it was. But there is something gruesomely fascinating about a leg completely out of context. How on earth did it get to be lying in a glass case? Whose leg is it? Where is the rest of their body? Ditto for that head in the glass case.
Gradually, we allowed ourselves to be shepherded out of the museum by the anxious guard, our cameras full of photographs, our mission complete and Ilse vowing to return one day and find the head with the axe in it. As for me, ten minutes running through the museum and I've had my fill.
Dead Guy
I managed to upload three photographs from Lopburi, a town about three hours by train north of Bangkok. It's a small town with not a lot to it, however, the ancient Khmer ruins really are beautiful. I spent a great deal of time contemplating them as I waiting for the imaginary replacement bus to pick us up after the bus accident.
Dead Baby
Also in this week's photos is "Dead Head," which, if left unexplained, may cause some confusion. "Dead Head," as you can imagine, really is someone's head. Since it is encased in a block of plastic and embalming fluid, clearly the person is dead. I'm not sure if you can tell from the photograph or not, but there is a bullet hole going through the brain. This is the result of one of Ilse's missions. Of all the sights and attractions in the wild city of Bangkok, she wanted to see the museum of dead people. There was a head with an axe in it, she claimed. This museum was not written up in her Lonely Planet, nor in my Rough Guide, so it took some sleuthing on both of our parts. Luckily, we are both good sleuths with a fair amount of luck. For those wanting to retrace our steps and in the vicinity of Bangkok, the Forsenic Museum is found in the Siriaj Hospital. Our trip there involved a pleasant boat taxi along the river, out of the head and stifling atmosphere of the Bangkok streets. Unfortunately, we arrived just as the museum was closing. But the poor lady at the desk was no match for this dynamic duo and we persuaded her with our pathetic looks and dashing charm (certainly not with our eloquent Thai that’s for sure) to let us in for a few minutes only. "We just want to see the head with the axe in it," Ilse explained earnestly. "You understand? Axe?" she said, miming it out for the lady.
Success. We were let in without having to pay the admission fee and we ran through the unlit museum looking for the axed head. I was quickly distracted from that particular object of our quest by a floating baby with a massive head wound and the desiccated corpses of murderers and rapists hanging in the gallery. The lights were turned off and we ran rampant through the unlit corridors among the dead bodies, flashing our cameras as we went. Actually, as the security guard came around to kick us out, we learned that photography is not permitted in the museum. "Please, the museum is closing," said the man in the uniform. "Please, no cameras."
"Yes, yes, we're coming," we replied, starting towards the exit. "Oooohh, look!" I exclaim. "A severed leg!" Click! Click!
Dead Head
Ok so it sounds totally weird and it was. But there is something gruesomely fascinating about a leg completely out of context. How on earth did it get to be lying in a glass case? Whose leg is it? Where is the rest of their body? Ditto for that head in the glass case.
Gradually, we allowed ourselves to be shepherded out of the museum by the anxious guard, our cameras full of photographs, our mission complete and Ilse vowing to return one day and find the head with the axe in it. As for me, ten minutes running through the museum and I've had my fill.
Dead Guy
Saturday, January 01, 2005
New Years 2005
Question: Is being on an 8 hour bus to Bangkok with no toilet like being in the desert on a horse with no name?
Random note: I have uploaded more photos. There are some of camp and some of Christmas with my students. The photos from Bangkok are not yet available, but check these out when you have a moment if you are interested.
A Story: After three days in Bangkok of running around all day and getting up to all sorts of random trouble until late hours of the night, I was exhausted and needed to get away. I took a train three hours north to the town of Lopburi. Don't worry if you've never heard of it, it is a very small town, known for it's Khmer ruins and monkies. A great combination if ever there was one. I did very little in Lopburi except walk around, check out the ruins and sleep. I spent most of the afternoon on a park bench eating food, enjoying the shade and watching the monkies play in a monkey playground. The playground is in the middle of a large traffic circle near the train tracks and as I walked back to my quiet, cool hotel room for a nap, I watched the monkies naviagating traffic and wondered how many of them get killed and maimed that way every year.
This, although I could not have known it at the time, is what's known as foreshadowing...
The next morning, I got up early and went to the bus station two hours before the bus was scheduled to depart, in order to ensure myself a ticket. I had assumed that the bus from Bangkok to Mae Sot passed through Lopburi and it would be easy to travel home from there, but I was wrong. I had to go four hours further north to a town that sounds like "Piss-on-you-lock" and catch another bus from there. No one was really sure about this other bus, but assumed there would or could be one.
Despite being at the bus stop ridiculously early, I was told that there was standing room only on the bus. It was a windy morning, it was New Years Eve, I was homeward bound and feeling bright and alive and adventurous. I ate breakfast and watched people. There were two other foreigners in the bus station, studiously ignorning me. When the bus pulled up, I realized that not only was there no seats, there was no room at all. Not to be detered, I jumped up and pushed my way on board before the bus had even come to a halt. The two foreigners realized what was happening far too late and argued loudly with the bus driver for several minutes. I'm not sure what they hoped to accomplish. The bus driver clearly did not speak any English and there was clearly no room on the bus for two more people and their ridiculously large backpacks. The bus pulled out of the station and I waved goodbye to them rather cheekily. Something which I later, rather regretted.
The bus took the road back through town. I was standing up near the front, almost directly in front of the windsheild and quite comfortable. Someone hanging out the door made a fuss and we all shifted back. I ended up about a meter further down the bus, wedged a little uncomfortably next to an old man with the largest pair of plastic frames I have ever seen, worn upside down with a hunk of blue foam on his nose. "Happy New Year," he said. "America and Thailand, big friends!" We were approaching the traffic circle with the monkey playground. A train was approaching. "You Christian?" he asked.
The bus was moving very slowly. I could hear the sound of the train at the station. I looked through the front window. The bus showed no signs of stopping. I could see the traffic arm descending to stop traffic. It wasn't just that everything was moving in slow motion because it was horrible. The bus really wasn't going that fast, and we all know that traffic barriers are rather slow. It was with a sense of unreality then, that I watched the red and white traffic barrier smash it's way through the window of the bus.
The girl sitting at the very front up against the window saw it coming and was able to move away, as was the person standing right behind her. It was the man who had taken my spot who got impaled by it.
At least the traffic barrier did it's job. At the speed we were travelling, we would most certainly have been hit by the train had we continued. The barrier, in crashing through the front windscreen, halted the progress of the bus and the train passed us by at a safe distance. The man was not badly hurt. His arm was dripping blood and appeared to be broken. He walked unsteadily and looked as if he was in shock. An ambulance arrived. The traffic arm was removed from the window. The other traffic arm had hit the side of the bus and couldn't be moved. Someone had to saw it off with a handsaw.
All this time, I was filled with a sense of shocked horror. But as the accident scene cleared and the bus was taken away, I began to regain my calm. Confusion now reigned. What was going to happen? There was one man, who had sold me my ticket, who spoke some English, but he was too busy doing (what?) something to talk to me. The police officers on the scene pretended not to hear me and the passengers just smiled at me. Everyone had a calm expression on their face, so I was lulled into believing that everything was being taken care of and another bus would soon come. I sat in the shade and watched the monkies safely navigate the traffic. Damned monkies.
For the next two hours the confusion became a sense of growing frustration. Someone finally called the tourist police who promised to come and explain the situation for me, but never showed up. Soon, I knew, the next bus would leave for Phitsanulok and on it would be those two foreigners with the big backpacks, waving cheekily to me as they went merrily on their way. Meanwhile, I would be stuck in Lopburi counting down the new year with the smug monkies.
There was a train at noon and eventually, I cut my losses and got on the train. Before leaving, I tried talking to someone about my bus ticket, seeing about getting my money back. The man looked sadly at me. "There was an accident," he explained, looking wise.
The bus cost 100 baht and is said to take four hours. The train cost half the price and for some mysterious reason takes six. There was standing room only and I ended up wedged into the space between carriages with a bunch of Thai soldiers. From what I have observed, Thai soldiers rarely go anywhere in a group without beer. These soldiers were certainly no exception. They were quite happy to make my acquaintance and more than happy to share their cold beer and whiskey cocktails. I was wanting to regain my spirit of adventure and more than happy to drink with them. We passed a few hours that way and after a few beer, I relaxed and got about enjoying the day again.
The scenery in Thailand is spectacular. The rice paddy is a brilliant bright green, full of white herons rising up into the dusty blue sky. Palm trees and bananna trees litter the landscape. Golden temples flash in the sun. Water buffalo raise their sleepy heads to watch the train pass. Wooden houses on stilts with washing hanging on the line form small villages with raised walk ways over the water. Young children swim in the muddy pools.
The soldiers got off the train at some point and I eventually got myself a seat. I watched the sun set in a huge ball of dark red into the green feilds and was happy. Even if I spent New Years alone in some strange town, at least I had seen the last sun set of the old year.
I jumped off the train as it was still moving and ran for the exit. I jumped on the back of a taxi-moto and yelled in Thai: "to the bus station!" Catching my sense of urgency, the driver took me on the wildest ride of my motorcylcing career. We pulled up just as the national anthem was playing, at the stroke of 6pm. I had 6 hours to make it to Mae Sot.
There were no busses to Mae Sot, I was told. But in an hour and a half, I could get a bus to Tak. Now Tak is a hole if there ever was one, not even warrenting a map in the Rough Guide. Tak is also the name of an evil spirit in a Steven King book, but it was closer to my goal and so I bought a ticket and grabbed dinner.
By the time the bus departed, it was quite dark and the bus moved through the night with speed that satisfied my growing anxiety. Would I spend the new year alone in a dingy hotel in a town by the name of Tak? I felt sure this would be the case.
We arrived in Tak at 9:30pm, to an almost empty bus station. There were certainly no busses heading to Mae Sot at the time. I began asking around for a songthew - a truck with benches in the back and a common form of public transit. I met a man who would take me if we found enough people to go. He seemed sure that if we waited, these people would show up. Alternatively, I could pay him a ridiculous sum of money. I looked around at the deserted bus station. Where were we going to find these people?
At one time in my earlier travels, I had been in somewhat of a similar situation. I had been trying to get somewhere for a certain time and was a little desperate about it. At night time I had pulled into a town with one leg of my journey left and I had found someone who was willing to take me for a certain sum of money. I got into the taxi and started out on the most hellish ride of my life. It began with the driver telling me that although he was a taxi driver, he was also a police man. He then pulled out a gun and a bottle of whiskey.
There I was, in Tak, desperate to get to Mae Sot and I found someone willing to take me. As we are waiting for these non-existant people to appear from no where and join us for the trip, the driver starts telling me that although he is a songthew driver, he is also a military police man. I started to have a very bad feeling about the whole situation. How badly did I need to get to Mae Sot anyways? Was the world trying to tell me something? Maybe it was just the kind of day where you stay put. In Benin, West Africa, they believe that you should welcome in the New Years in your home for good luck, not go anywhere. I was beginning to come around to their way of thinking.
By 10pm, the people had, in fact, materialized and we had a full truck ready to set out for Mae Sot. The driver did not appear at all drunk, there was no whiskey to be seen and thankfully, no gun. We sped around winding corners through the night on an empty road. The driver let me off in front of the bar sixteen and a half hours after I had left my hotel room that morning. It was 11:30 and I had half an hour until midnight.
I was welcomed into the bar with cheers of delight and warm hugs. No one had been expecting me. I was more filthy that you can imagine and probably stunk, but I was quite happy to be home. Someone got me a cold beer and a shot of tequilla with crushed chilies. As the New Year approached, we made fire balloons and sent them off into the night, filling them with all our bad karma and good hopes for the new year.
It's good to be safe, among friends and back home.
Happy New Year everyone.
Random note: I have uploaded more photos. There are some of camp and some of Christmas with my students. The photos from Bangkok are not yet available, but check these out when you have a moment if you are interested.
A Story: After three days in Bangkok of running around all day and getting up to all sorts of random trouble until late hours of the night, I was exhausted and needed to get away. I took a train three hours north to the town of Lopburi. Don't worry if you've never heard of it, it is a very small town, known for it's Khmer ruins and monkies. A great combination if ever there was one. I did very little in Lopburi except walk around, check out the ruins and sleep. I spent most of the afternoon on a park bench eating food, enjoying the shade and watching the monkies play in a monkey playground. The playground is in the middle of a large traffic circle near the train tracks and as I walked back to my quiet, cool hotel room for a nap, I watched the monkies naviagating traffic and wondered how many of them get killed and maimed that way every year.
This, although I could not have known it at the time, is what's known as foreshadowing...
The next morning, I got up early and went to the bus station two hours before the bus was scheduled to depart, in order to ensure myself a ticket. I had assumed that the bus from Bangkok to Mae Sot passed through Lopburi and it would be easy to travel home from there, but I was wrong. I had to go four hours further north to a town that sounds like "Piss-on-you-lock" and catch another bus from there. No one was really sure about this other bus, but assumed there would or could be one.
Despite being at the bus stop ridiculously early, I was told that there was standing room only on the bus. It was a windy morning, it was New Years Eve, I was homeward bound and feeling bright and alive and adventurous. I ate breakfast and watched people. There were two other foreigners in the bus station, studiously ignorning me. When the bus pulled up, I realized that not only was there no seats, there was no room at all. Not to be detered, I jumped up and pushed my way on board before the bus had even come to a halt. The two foreigners realized what was happening far too late and argued loudly with the bus driver for several minutes. I'm not sure what they hoped to accomplish. The bus driver clearly did not speak any English and there was clearly no room on the bus for two more people and their ridiculously large backpacks. The bus pulled out of the station and I waved goodbye to them rather cheekily. Something which I later, rather regretted.
The bus took the road back through town. I was standing up near the front, almost directly in front of the windsheild and quite comfortable. Someone hanging out the door made a fuss and we all shifted back. I ended up about a meter further down the bus, wedged a little uncomfortably next to an old man with the largest pair of plastic frames I have ever seen, worn upside down with a hunk of blue foam on his nose. "Happy New Year," he said. "America and Thailand, big friends!" We were approaching the traffic circle with the monkey playground. A train was approaching. "You Christian?" he asked.
The bus was moving very slowly. I could hear the sound of the train at the station. I looked through the front window. The bus showed no signs of stopping. I could see the traffic arm descending to stop traffic. It wasn't just that everything was moving in slow motion because it was horrible. The bus really wasn't going that fast, and we all know that traffic barriers are rather slow. It was with a sense of unreality then, that I watched the red and white traffic barrier smash it's way through the window of the bus.
The girl sitting at the very front up against the window saw it coming and was able to move away, as was the person standing right behind her. It was the man who had taken my spot who got impaled by it.
At least the traffic barrier did it's job. At the speed we were travelling, we would most certainly have been hit by the train had we continued. The barrier, in crashing through the front windscreen, halted the progress of the bus and the train passed us by at a safe distance. The man was not badly hurt. His arm was dripping blood and appeared to be broken. He walked unsteadily and looked as if he was in shock. An ambulance arrived. The traffic arm was removed from the window. The other traffic arm had hit the side of the bus and couldn't be moved. Someone had to saw it off with a handsaw.
All this time, I was filled with a sense of shocked horror. But as the accident scene cleared and the bus was taken away, I began to regain my calm. Confusion now reigned. What was going to happen? There was one man, who had sold me my ticket, who spoke some English, but he was too busy doing (what?) something to talk to me. The police officers on the scene pretended not to hear me and the passengers just smiled at me. Everyone had a calm expression on their face, so I was lulled into believing that everything was being taken care of and another bus would soon come. I sat in the shade and watched the monkies safely navigate the traffic. Damned monkies.
For the next two hours the confusion became a sense of growing frustration. Someone finally called the tourist police who promised to come and explain the situation for me, but never showed up. Soon, I knew, the next bus would leave for Phitsanulok and on it would be those two foreigners with the big backpacks, waving cheekily to me as they went merrily on their way. Meanwhile, I would be stuck in Lopburi counting down the new year with the smug monkies.
There was a train at noon and eventually, I cut my losses and got on the train. Before leaving, I tried talking to someone about my bus ticket, seeing about getting my money back. The man looked sadly at me. "There was an accident," he explained, looking wise.
The bus cost 100 baht and is said to take four hours. The train cost half the price and for some mysterious reason takes six. There was standing room only and I ended up wedged into the space between carriages with a bunch of Thai soldiers. From what I have observed, Thai soldiers rarely go anywhere in a group without beer. These soldiers were certainly no exception. They were quite happy to make my acquaintance and more than happy to share their cold beer and whiskey cocktails. I was wanting to regain my spirit of adventure and more than happy to drink with them. We passed a few hours that way and after a few beer, I relaxed and got about enjoying the day again.
The scenery in Thailand is spectacular. The rice paddy is a brilliant bright green, full of white herons rising up into the dusty blue sky. Palm trees and bananna trees litter the landscape. Golden temples flash in the sun. Water buffalo raise their sleepy heads to watch the train pass. Wooden houses on stilts with washing hanging on the line form small villages with raised walk ways over the water. Young children swim in the muddy pools.
The soldiers got off the train at some point and I eventually got myself a seat. I watched the sun set in a huge ball of dark red into the green feilds and was happy. Even if I spent New Years alone in some strange town, at least I had seen the last sun set of the old year.
I jumped off the train as it was still moving and ran for the exit. I jumped on the back of a taxi-moto and yelled in Thai: "to the bus station!" Catching my sense of urgency, the driver took me on the wildest ride of my motorcylcing career. We pulled up just as the national anthem was playing, at the stroke of 6pm. I had 6 hours to make it to Mae Sot.
There were no busses to Mae Sot, I was told. But in an hour and a half, I could get a bus to Tak. Now Tak is a hole if there ever was one, not even warrenting a map in the Rough Guide. Tak is also the name of an evil spirit in a Steven King book, but it was closer to my goal and so I bought a ticket and grabbed dinner.
By the time the bus departed, it was quite dark and the bus moved through the night with speed that satisfied my growing anxiety. Would I spend the new year alone in a dingy hotel in a town by the name of Tak? I felt sure this would be the case.
We arrived in Tak at 9:30pm, to an almost empty bus station. There were certainly no busses heading to Mae Sot at the time. I began asking around for a songthew - a truck with benches in the back and a common form of public transit. I met a man who would take me if we found enough people to go. He seemed sure that if we waited, these people would show up. Alternatively, I could pay him a ridiculous sum of money. I looked around at the deserted bus station. Where were we going to find these people?
At one time in my earlier travels, I had been in somewhat of a similar situation. I had been trying to get somewhere for a certain time and was a little desperate about it. At night time I had pulled into a town with one leg of my journey left and I had found someone who was willing to take me for a certain sum of money. I got into the taxi and started out on the most hellish ride of my life. It began with the driver telling me that although he was a taxi driver, he was also a police man. He then pulled out a gun and a bottle of whiskey.
There I was, in Tak, desperate to get to Mae Sot and I found someone willing to take me. As we are waiting for these non-existant people to appear from no where and join us for the trip, the driver starts telling me that although he is a songthew driver, he is also a military police man. I started to have a very bad feeling about the whole situation. How badly did I need to get to Mae Sot anyways? Was the world trying to tell me something? Maybe it was just the kind of day where you stay put. In Benin, West Africa, they believe that you should welcome in the New Years in your home for good luck, not go anywhere. I was beginning to come around to their way of thinking.
By 10pm, the people had, in fact, materialized and we had a full truck ready to set out for Mae Sot. The driver did not appear at all drunk, there was no whiskey to be seen and thankfully, no gun. We sped around winding corners through the night on an empty road. The driver let me off in front of the bar sixteen and a half hours after I had left my hotel room that morning. It was 11:30 and I had half an hour until midnight.
I was welcomed into the bar with cheers of delight and warm hugs. No one had been expecting me. I was more filthy that you can imagine and probably stunk, but I was quite happy to be home. Someone got me a cold beer and a shot of tequilla with crushed chilies. As the New Year approached, we made fire balloons and sent them off into the night, filling them with all our bad karma and good hopes for the new year.
It's good to be safe, among friends and back home.
Happy New Year everyone.
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