Live for Nothing, Die for Something

When we arrived in Mae Sot, we knew that we had finally found our new home.

Okay, so that’s not entirely true.

Motion sick, steeped in our sweat, and slightly nauseous from the day’s diet of potato chips, Fanta, and chocolate-filled rolls: after eight hours of yet more transit of varying discomfort, Lauren and I ambled over to the nearest serviceable guest house, settling into a spartan mosquito den that happened to contain a mattress. Following several hours of slow torture on the concrete bed (an unfortunate cultural transition, to be sure) and water-weight loss, we found ourselves eager to escape the oppressive, malarial heat of our room and ventured out into the unfamiliar street. Passing the local jail, a small room stuffed equitably with men, women, and children, we noticed that the streets were abandoned, inhabited only by the ubiquitous packs of stray dogs, small-town moped gangs, and police dressed in black, banging repetitiously on streetlamps, truly the poor man’s Gong Show.

If this introduction comes across as ominous, it is because Mae Sot seems painted in uncertainty. A tenuous border-town eight kilometers from Burma (Myanmar), the population consists of unwanted Burmese (or in many cases, wanted for arrest), beleaguered Thais, and a very small but quite noticeable collection of farang (foreigners), in town to save the Burmese or to marry their women (a separate post on this phenomenon may be likely). Here unfolds an interesting daily charade, a game played on the local and national level: the Burmese, comprising over half of the population, reside largely illegally; the local police, under loose guidance from the Thai government, abide the Burmese influence; as local cops, however, they still arrest and detain Burmese for five days, and if the detainee cannot provide an official ID or scrape together a decent bribe in that time, they will be released again into Burma, as animals back into the impoverished wild. Moreover, NGO’s are technically illegal, so in order to secure their operations, however temporarily, these under-funded agencies are obliged to regularly pay police to look the other way. Throw into the mix Burmese military spies, political assassinations (one occurred three weeks ago), and Thai intelligence, and you will have one convoluted cocktail, a Long Island Iced Tea precariously and unevenly concocted.

Though Mae Sot certainly would not fit the bill of “dangerous,” one could not deny a particular tension in the area. Many Thais view the Burmese as uncultured scabs pockmarking the natural wonder of Thailand’s rosy cheeks. Whereas Thailand is a prosperous nation, particularly for the region, Burma is indigent and desperate, and those that can cross the border with no tangible skill or prospects eagerly fill the gaps and monopolize the bottom rung, much like Mexican-US relations but with thousands of years of animosity and invasions. The Thai response to the Burmese infestation, so to speak, varies from quiet acceptance to intimidation; Thais are a happy and benevolent people, for the most part, yet the town’s deserted streets owe to the roving gangs of young men, two to each shiny red moped. Cruising in formation, these Junior Roughriders give the Burmese a new aggressive military about which to fret, and they have and will attack any Burmese that they find outside after ten at night (we postulate that the Banging of the Lampposts comprises the evening swansong of the police, alerting locals that though they are on duty, they are mentally and morally promised to green tea and glass noodles). Note to all mothers: the gangs have been given strict and uncompromising orders not to touch the white people. Woe to those Americans of Burmese descent who choose to further their ancestral cause in Mae Sot.

So what, then, is the attraction of Mae Sot, the town fictionalized and glorified in the latest and most pointless Rambo installation?

NGO’s live here. They breathe here. They breed here. One can hardly step on an ant without an Association for Burmese Ant Survival and Proliferation (ABASP) springing straight out of the ashes. Whereas other Thai locales concern themselves primarily with Advocacy, Fundraising, and Possibly Profiteering, Mae Sot is a town that delves into immediate crisis. Many NGO’s deal directly with former sex workers and HIV-infected children, halt the bleeding of a strife-ridden people (envision doctors in an overcrowded clinic, dealing consecutively with tuberculosis, low blood pressure, and landmine patients, so hurried as to ignore basic hygienic precautions), or are comprised entirely of Burmese who would be arrested upon reentering the country.

The glut of NGO’s has, perhaps unsurprisingly, created a culture of competition, sometimes to the point of silliness: Medecins Sans Frontieres, a French medical group, competes for resources against Aide Medicale Internationale, a French medical group; the Burmese-run Association for Political Prisoners competes for resources against the Burmese Political Prisoners Union; The People’s Front of Judea competes for resources against the Judean People’s Front. Evidently, there is a high threshold for drama in Mae Sot, and political dissidence, disease, and the ever-present threat of arrest does not suffice.

Enterprising cops, sparring NGO’s, and semi-feral canines do not tell the whole tale of our adopted haven (well, perhaps the dogs might be rather emblematic). When approached, everybody has a story to tell, an opinion to offer, a hand to lend. Lauren and I, in desperate search of lodging and without the benefit of Craig and His infernal List, turned to the general populace of Mae Sot, and were not disappointed in the kindness of strangers. Bakery owners, bicycle mechanics, furniture retailers, vendors at swimming pools, et al. gave us directions, phone numbers, and rides to find accommodations. Such kindness proved problematic, before long, as Thailand smiled too much and tried to help, unable to simply say “sorry, can’t help ya, bud.” Jesus Christ would have been born in a Buddhist wat before anybody flatly refused to help find poor Mary a respectable home.

Another small example: Lauren and I wandered into the town’s market, uncertain of the depths into which we would plunge. Innocuous at first, you pass by the basics – simple shirts, beans, a few nondescript fried animal parts. After a little while, you start not to recognize the people and the place, your mental bread crumbs swept away by provocative sights (fried chicken heads, buckets of infant turtles for repast, motorbikes slowly but determinedly edging their way in narrow, enclosed spaces into which internal combustion should not venture) and even more invasive odors. Having worked for nearly a decade’s worth of summers slinging fish guts and basting in clam juices, nothing could have prepared me for the scents of lukewarm pork slowly roasting in tropical temperatures or a bucket of eels underfoot, sloshing vivaciously and kicking up their aquatic aromas. Saturation of scent had never been so complete. We were lost in the Muslim district (previously unknown to us) before long, fully perplexed as we had noticed Thai trappings fade to Burmese sarongs, only to yield to turbans and scraggly beards. Noticing my incongruity, two men sitting behind a vat of nervous fish waved me over and called out “whiskey!” as they shoved a pink cup in my hand. Though I am generally loathe to accept the alcoholic handouts of street folk, their persuasive grins and persistent demeanors bade me consent to their offer, and they happily congratulated me for partaking of their generosity. Lauren did not share our immediate delight, however, as she informed me that the water that the men had included in our transaction was my first sample of the local water, and my continuing gift could likely be dysentery. Fortunately, this did not come to pass, and only their peculiar friendliness remains in our minds.

As this town has conspired, both personally and professionally, to keep our attention and affection for the next few months, Lauren and I have finally found organizations to which we can commit. Though the frustratingly slow Thai/Burmese pace (so common and yet so unique to countless developing nations) slowed the process, we did have some choice in where we would involve ourselves (not the prettiest girl at the dance, but eager and approachable enough to still be desired), and are pleased with the results. More to come on this development, as well as our new house – complete with Western toilet – but we are happy, safe, and satiated.

Houses of the Holy

Pardon the puerile reference, but Lauren and I recently did a little cave exploration, yielding a scene ripped straight from the Led Zeppelin IV cover art.



















An hour north of Pai, we disembarked from the previously referenced Smallest Bus in the World in Soppong, a town that seems to have grown for the simple fact that nothing else seemed to occupy the space. Dusty, hot, and desolate, it has all the outward appearances of one gigantic roadside diner – waitresses may have been sassy and/or forlorn, though all I could glean from them was that they wanted the Fanta bottle back for the deposit. The place has the aura of a grizzled outpost trader that met a homely teetotaler and attempted unconvincingly to create a normal and respectable façade from his bold and untamed nature, smiling meekly, wincing from the soul.

Such were the environs when we were faced with the question of how to bridge the 9 km between the cave entrance and ourselves. Luckily, either Lauren or I was cute enough to garner a quick ride with “Ben”, a tour guide traveling to the caves, and we arrived at our destination in two shakes of a lambs tail, mostly on account of our pilot having been a former pan-African rally car champion. The sands of the Sahara sifting through his mind, daring and festive bleats of “vrrroom” squealed delightfully from his lips at every sign of uncertainty of survival from his passengers, we careened audaciously to the caves of Tham Lod.

Transportation has been a source of great amusement and great consternation.

Tham Lod, by all appearances, should inspire awe and introductory mysticism. As was explained to us, it is one of the largest cave systems in the world, plays home to millions of bats and swifts, and retains a unique and spiritual connection three thousand years into the past in the form of coffins – hollowed-out tree trunks that were placed deep within the caves to honor individuals of power and importance, yesteryear’s celebutantes and Thailand’s Idols.

Caves offer a stark contrast to modern tourism, the Texan supersized mentality of Bigger Is Better. Whereas one can appreciate the enormity of the Eiffel Tower, Mount Rushmore, or The World’s Biggest Ball of Yarn simply for the scale, a cave suffers from such dimensions; there is no sense of connection to the space. Caves’ close confines seize upon dark fears, uncertainties, animal instincts. In a massive, open area, the space is simply unfamiliar, poorly lit and rather an odd place to find one’s self, like a basketball court boarded up during a hurricane. Tham Lod’s yawning throat leading into it’s engorged belly never created suspense, and as a result its peculiarities and intricacies never engaged us, but seemed rather ineffectual, as if we were too polite to refuse a house tour of a friend’s unfurnished apartment.

Which is a shame, as we did climb narrow and treacherously steep wooden stairs high across the rock faces, used our imaginations to discern a prehistoric cave painting (faded, no doubt, by the encouraged use of flash photography), walked among ancient burial grounds, and rafted out on a bamboo skiff. Yet all I could ponder was “Can wooden artifacts really last that long? I wonder if the Ark of the Covenant could still be around, and if in some way it altered the shape of the Second World War…”

Any ideas out there regarding wood’s decomposition over millennia?

Riding in Tremendous Discomfort: Buses, Bikes, & Elephant Butts

After our experience with the hill tribe organization, Dan and I decided to take our chances and head west toward the Burmese border. There are a series of refugee camps from the Northwest all the way down to the Southwest of the country, with a few dusty little border towns in between. Having chosen a career path focusing on violence and health, and Dan (possibly) in human rights law, we felt this the best decision. And of course, where there are refugees, there are NGO’s.
On our journey west we stopped in Pie, the white hippy Mecca of northern Thailand. When Dan and I bought our tickets from the main bus terminal in the Northern capital, we went ahead and asked for the cheapest bus, which also happened to be the only bus heading toward Pie within the next four hours. I don’t know what the “expensive” option would have been like, but when Dan and I saw our bus pull up we began to wish that we had inquired. The “bus” was a glorified mini-van with such legroom as to make discount airlines look altruistic; boarding it was like joining a giant unamusing game of musical chairs. Thankfully, being among the first in line, Dan and I managed to stuff ourselves into two of the little sub-seats, then watched in amazement as the eager throng, at twice the capacity of the allotted seats, found places for themselves among the luggage, between the seats, and on top of the engine. By the time we left, Dan had one leg bent up into the seat in front of us, one arm on me, and another arm and leg on top of a local woman who had squeezed herself in between a person and a bag of rice in the aisle next to us. Dan looked at me with bitter desperation as the bus’s engine roared to life, but there was nothing we could do. We were committed.
Six hours of windy roads later we pulled into our destination. Pie is, in a way, like Pleasantville. The town’s one main street, about a mile long, is filled with hippies of different shapes and colors; Western European hippies with Aladdin pants and thickly manicured dreads, Eastern European hippies with mohawks and tight-fitting t-shirts, American hippies with tattered skirts and tattoos advocating peace (or whatever Thai word that the sly tattoo artist had decided to give them). Both sides of the road are lined with stands selling everything from rasta-colored pot leaf paraphernalia to sleeve tattoos to the Thai take on burritos (yes, we had to try one of these). In short, while Pie may be a great place to take a time-out from Southeast Asia for a few weeks, Dan and I found it to be a little too “pleasant” for our tastes, and hightailed it out of there after a day or two.
One adventure we did manage to fit into our schedule was an “elephant ride.” Having traveled a bit over the years, I have heard people talk about the famous Southeast Asian elephant rides. When you fly into the Bangkok airport there is a huge billboard of a charming Asian Elephant making its way through the jungle with two giggly tourists in a wooden seat atop its back, a logo reading “EXPERIENCE THAILAND” written underneath. We must have chosen the “rustic adventure version” because our elephant riding experience was nothing like the experience promised in billboards. When Dan and I arrived at the elephant camp, at small sadistic looking man told us to climb up onto an big wooden platform and jump onto the back of the animal. There was no fancy little wooden seat, no beautifully decorated blanket… At this camp it was just you and the elephant.
I don’t know if you have ever ridden a horse bareback, but just imagine bare-backing an animal about three times as wide and twice as tall without so much as a loose rope collar to prevent you from falling 15 feet to the ground. Our little sadistic guide was very amused by our obvious uneasiness with the situation and found it hilarious to take us down the steepest terrain he could find, several hills with a 60-degree slope. After about 15 minutes of groinal agony, we tried to tell the guide with a mix of Thai, hand signals, and English that one hour, rather than the two hours we had planned, would be more than enough time to experience the elephant. The guide laughed, and steered the elephant a different direction toward the river. When we arrived at the beach, the guide climbed down the elephant’s trunk with our bag and camera. He then gave the elephant a command somewhere along the lines of “shake.” The elephant stumbled into the water and moved his huge body back and forth with great force, tossing us easily into the water. The guide laughed and laughed. Dan and I, though very wet, were also amused, excited about the opportunity to play with the elephant in the river. We spent the next half hour climbing on the elephants back, being flailed into the water, and trying in the meantime to avoid being sat on by it’s massive leathery body.

Palpable Disadvantages of Not Knowing the Language

We got into our very first motorcycle accident a week ago. Wasn’t my fault, you see, and everybody was fine – the event even ended with ice cream sundaes! More to this later, but one can imagine the difficulties of trying to communicate your innocence to the blubbery teenage Thai girl who just t-boned you in traffic in the heart of a small city and is muttering something about “police” with her cell phone in hand.

Chiang Rai has been both a pleasant surprise and something of a purgatory that may be left to us, the last kid chosen in a pick-up basketball game. After some exploration, we have discovered a whole slew of affordable housing (approximately $50 per month, split between us), a picturesque local beach on a lazy river cutting through the mountains, and perhaps best of all, an internet café with the best brownies this side of Belgium (perhaps the reason that we may have been spotted online rather regularly). In spite of such wonders, Chiang Rai has some rather dour prospects: the city does not appear to have an active or interesting NGO population, but rather a humdrum tourist scene; most NGO’s in the area either do not exist anymore, the husks of which are still festively adorning the internet, deceptively drawing one’s attention, or demand formal applications from overseas.

After Lauren courageously harassed over the telephone the friend of a friend of a former employee listed in Lonely Planet, we had a meeting set up with the hill-tribe organization. This group claimed to be active in five separate projects, including sustainable agriculture, sexual health, and cultural preservation. The lady who met us was affable, spoke good English (an immeasurable relief at this point), and looked so unbelievably like an indigenous Central American that both Lauren and I had to restrain ourselves from accessing our varying degrees of Spanish. After introductions, pleasantries, and assorted sniffings, we felt quite appreciated, and were booked for a trip to a Lahu village two hours away the next morning. And sure enough, at dawn the next day, we found ourselves in the bed of a pickup truck with On and Suk, two 20 year old Akha tribe girls, Ai, a portly and shy 27 year old who looked 16, and Nunchu, a 13 year old who looked 22.

Cut two hours ahead, and we were seated around a hearth with our gang, plus some more interns from our organization, in the Lahu village. We were in a bamboo village, the type so readily recognizable from innumerable Vietnam films and adventure yarns. The elephant grass roofs and thatched walls did nothing to muffle the defiant karaoke from down the hill, nor did the haphazardly allocated bamboo floorboards (which groaned and shifted quite actively under my feet) hide the comings and goings of chickens taking refuge form the sun under the stilted huts.

The villagers had all come out to greet us and had prepared a feast of teas, fish, spinach, chicken, and jackfruit. We sat cross-legged on the floor, the fire active and slowly seeping smoke across the cabin, the elders sitting curiously and quietly observant, lackadaisically consuming the comically oversized tobacco cigars. The shaman, weather-beaten and sage, teeth blackened by overuse and undernourishment, was delighted when I zipped the pant legs back onto my shorts (a novel innovation for travelers, the pants have removable and replaceable legs), a spell that he could not have imagined conjuring. All was going peacefully until the adults of the organization turned to us in unison, prepared to give us bad news and to be forceful about it, ready to tell us the truth about Santa. Our presence had been requested as guinea pigs for an eco-tour planned for the area – “up and out into the midday furnace, tell us what you think!”

After about two hours of traipsing through overgrown forest and clinging tenaciously to uncertain mountain paths, we certainly tried to chime in during the discussion, but nobody seemed to care about the perspectives of the two English speakers. The problem with this attitude – the tour was designed to interest English speakers. The concept of our tour went something like this: the party ambled disjointedly around the countryside surrounding the village in the vague hopes of learning about the culture and its agricultural practices. This was told by the elder guide, who often would narrate for minutes at a time in his native language, his spiel being translated from Lahu by his young daughter into Thai for the benefit of Ai, who might nervously venture to point up and tell us “It’s fruit.” The tour would then recommence. Lauren’s highlight of the trek was collecting approximately two dozen dried palm fronds on her sharpened bamboo walking stick. As for myself, I was overjoyed not to have been grievously injured by the remnant sharpened bamboo pieces on the trees, left hanging precariously at eye level around every turn (though planned for Westerners, the tour seems not to be anticipating any customers challenging the six-foot plateau).

According to the rigidly structured schedule, the next several months were all meant to explore the Community Based Tourism of this hill-tribe or that, seven days a week. Perhaps if we spoke the language, we could participate and feel fully integrated into the work that was being put into the development of these tours; as the situation was shaping up, we would be much more seen than heard, waiting patiently to be fed whatever auditory scraps would be translated and thrown from the table to our awaiting ears.

And this is how Lauren and I decided to leave Chiang Rai on another open-jawed quest to find a salvageable situation (and how I was convinced to bid adieu to the faux Pizza Hut with two-for-one specials, including a bacon and corn pie).

But, before we could leave, I was guiding our rented motorcycle into a little space across the street when our bike had suddenly turned sideways, a loud smack had approached us from the rear, and the aforementioned Thai girl had joined us in a heap of meat and metal on the pavement of Chiang Rai.

Lots of things wander through your mind as you wheel your bike ashamedly off the road: who was that, how did that happen, is anybody hurt, what is the damage, why are these people driving on the left side of the road anyways? Upon addressing the situation, everything looked to be in order, with the small exception of my right-side mirror lying bravely and defiantly in the middle of the right lane. Lauren was safe and seemingly uninjured, though a bit shaken. The girl spoke no English, and I no Thai, and no bilingual passers-by seemed interested in helping resolve the situation, so it appeared that we were at an impasse. She had a small rash on her arm, my bike had lost a mirror (and I was not eagerly anticipating a bill from a bike shop owner to a white tourist with no insurance and a bike that had been rented plenty dinged already), so I was prepared to bow and be on my way when she spoke the word “police.”

Though the police station was less than a kilometer down the road, nobody came for over twenty minutes, with Lauren and I sitting uncomfortably, somewhat dazedly, and rather angrily in waiting. We had no fear about the actual incident – I had been turning right (American equivalent of turning left) across a break in traffic when she had tried to whiz by me in the opposing lane, and in doing so had sent the three of us sprawling across the road. Sitting and watching the culprit inspect her still immaculate motorcycle, searching in vain with teary eyes for any flaw, was not making the long wait any easier. Finally, two girls in uniform arrived on a moped – the Thai girl’s friends. Immediately, fingers were pointed, tears were shed, and the girls blanketed the scene, amateur detectives ready to present their evidence to the jury. How would I explain anything to the cops in Thai against the heated words of loyal and enraged friends? I was given a phone, and in English the man told me that he would arrive in ten minutes.

To condense the following: the friends had, in fact, called the phone number of the rental company of our motorbike, and an English-speaking mechanic had come to inspect the damages to our bike and to instruct me to pay for her hospitalization for her scrape, which was approximately this long: ______________________ and this deep: -. Using the most basic English at my disposal and approximately eight distinct explanatory hand gestures, I explained to the mechanic that I had been hit, and that the Culprit should pay for my mirror (if we ever get our video camera in action, I have promised Lauren a spirited reenactment for the purposes of this blog). Once again, we were at an impasse, until I walked angrily onto the road and called attention to the piece de resistance: the deep scrapes in the asphalt in the right lane.

Cue understated astonishment on friend’s faces, impish smile from the Culprit, and an offer to let bygones be bygones, which included us paying for our own busted mirror. Had we spoken the language, I could have had her pay for the mirror, x-rays for Lauren’s arm (which is still stiff, but in good shape), and a conciliatory ice cream next door. To do so, the following circumstances were necessary to consider:
- The police would have to enforce any punishment meted to either side
- The police probably do not speak considerable English
- The police are much more likely to sympathize with a visibly injured Thai girl than a livid, bearded white tourist
- Given the aggressive and unpredictable nature of foreign policing (even in Thailand, I have heard that drug dealers can be arrested and summarily shot with not due process), a night or several in jail were not out of the realm of possibility for my part in the event

As the estimate for the mirror was 200 baht (approximately $6.50), I chose to shelve my righteous indignation and purchase the mirror and the “I am so sorry for involving you in a motor vehicle accident” banana split for Lauren. But, ah, to have spoken the language on that afternoon!

INSECT CARTS: LATE NIGHT DRUNK FOOD IN THAILAND

Lauren's first impressions of Thailand:

- It is much more difficult to rent an elephant than I had imagined. When talking about this trip, Dan was excited by the possibility of owning a motorcycle to transport to and from work. I, on the other hand, was intent on having an elephant, or at least renting one for six months. I have since found that in addition the exorbitant costs associated with caring for these animals, this sort of purchase is against the law in Thailand. Not to worry—the town we are looking to work in has an elephant camp within close proximity. With any luck, I may be able to take them on a few excursions, and perhaps get some cuddle time in here and there!

- When Dan and I first arrived, we waited for 10 minutes to cross a normal street in Bangkok. We eventually learned to “follow the Thai,” a much quicker method that involves stepping into the blur of tuk-tuks, motorcycles, and cars. It’s not necessarily the most instinctual move, but it gets easier with practice.

- Having spoken the native language in most of the countries I’ve visited/lived in, coming to Thailand has been a challenge. Outside the big tourist areas, communication involves a series of hand gestures and grunts. I have yet to figure out an appropriate way of expressing the words “bathroom,” “toilet paper,” and “birth control.”

- The night market in Chiang Mai, supposedly the biggest and most famous night market in Southeast Asia was quite a site to behold. Spread over sixteen blocks, there was every item you could possibly think to buy. In my current financial situation, it was easy to window shop. Dan, on the other hand, was a bit difficult to contain. It took great effort on my part to convince him not to buy a 3-inch thick bright silver bracelet, or a gold and black kimono. I can’t promise I will have as much success 5 months from nowJ

- The boat over to Ko Sammet island was another interesting experience. In an effort to save money, we decided to take the “local boat.” The fact that there were 40 people crowed into a 20 foot boat didn’t bother me. Nor did the fact that the waves were big enough to slosh over the side. The unnerving part of the trip was the fact that our lives depended on a small little pump they were using to keep us afloat, as there was and consistent and considerable amount of water pooling in the bottom of the boat.

- I would call myself fairly adventurous when it comes to eating new things. That being said, Thailand has definitely exposed my limit. I believe I have seen every single part of every animal being sold for consumption in this country. In addition to Dan’s chicken sphincter, we have seen pig intestines, stomachs, feet, you name it. We most recently discovered “late night drunk food” of Thailand. Scattered throughout the city are old men with carts full of fried insects. For a dollar you can buy a carton filled to the top with a mix of grasshoppers, melee worms, or caterpillars. Some people like to drizzle a little hot sauce over the top, while others like to savor the flavor a bit more. I’m giving myself a few more months….

WHEN THE THAIS CAUTION ABOUT SPICY FOODS, THEY’RE NOT F***IN’ AROUND and other first impressions about this country

I had planned to write a quick-hit list of first impressions, which seems mildly after-the-fact after ten days or so within Thailand. Nevertheless, I became somewhat enamored with the format, so below are my thoughts and reactions regarding our immersion into the country and culture.

- Bangkok is cleaner and more orderly than I had thought (which previously was some vague mix of an imagined Mexico City and 12 Monkeys). Very impressed by the modernity and bustle – standing under the newly constructed sky train at night transports me eerily efficiently into a nondescript scene from Bladerunner.

- About the Bangkok mass transit system – the sky train and subway are immaculate. New, efficient, timely, cool to the touch. Clearly they have not had ample time to collect urine and vagrants.

- My first meal here – bacon and egg fried rice, with a side of bacon. Bacon. Fried. Rice.

- Turns out that 7-11’s are the Starbucks of Thailand. Every corner, every street, every city, you could navigate Bangkok without ever being out of sight of a 7-11 – and I could navigate the coming 97 degree temperatures without ever being at a loss for a Slurpee. Remains to be seen whether or not I will decide this is out of the scope of what I hope to glean from Thailand.

- Thailand’s celebrated transsexual/transvestite community is not, so it would appear, so difficult to spot. At least, this goes for those that we have spotted…

- The mosquitoes here are less obtrusive than anticipated. Perhaps this is on account of the perfect climate, regular meals, and general acceptance of their presence. In the US, the sight of a pseudo chicken dance of mosquito-avoidance is commonplace, as is an obsession with stalking each pest that connives its way through any given threshold. Even in Bangkok, mosquitos go unmolested, sitting lined up like satiated, assured Iowans awaiting the next refill at the Ponderosa buffet.

- As individuals accustomed to the sun (Cape Cod, San Diego), we were not overly concerned with the strong sun as we relaxed and took in the sun in Kho Samet, a touristy island not far from Bangkok. As individuals with naturally translucent skin, we were mistaken.

- Driving on the left is exhilarating! Who knows when one might forget? Our moped, our small nod to breaking away from planned boat trips and hostel restaurants, was unmistakably the only such pink panther of 100 cubic centiliter’d fury. Though Lauren was the only person that I could really impress, the color was still a bit of a letdown; we all entertain our Walter Mitty fantasies, after all.

- I aspired, after 54 hours in the country, to eat like the native Thais. After spending 20 baht on my meal, I retired my fried pig-skin skewer to interview my skewer of chicken innards. Upon discovering a sphincter halfway through this endeavor, I declined to complete my “authentic” Thai dinner.

- In spite of this distasteful experience, I am rather overwhelmed by the deliciousness of Thai food. We have made a choice to live very modestly (upon securing jobs and lodging) upon simple rice dishes, and I couldn’t be happier about it. A little properly spiced chicken and a few cashews will go a long way.

- We stumbled upon the game of takrow (sic?) while exploring Kho Samet – this is, simply put, volleyball played with the feet. The ball is small and made of wicker, and the net approximately six feet high. This game is one of the more enchanting spectacles that I have witnessed in some time. Bicycle kicks on almost every possession!

- The people, so far, have been incredibly helpful and of a sweet disposition. In public places, in fact, the hassles of dealing with the aggressive salesmen of other developing countries have occasionally been replaced with the unexpected hassles of coping with overly eager good Samaritans with a marginal grasp of the English language.

- Lauren and I have been playing quite the spirited games of backgammon during our quieter evenings. Spirited mostly on account of my difficulty in accepting losses. Difficult on account of her propensity to roll doubles right at the end.

- The dogs here run the gamut from goofy to ridiculous. Today we played with a dog named Barbeque that seemed more sheep than poodle. Lauren is convinced that we have discovered the epicenter of dropkickers destined to wear sweaters and get their lunch-kibble stolen by bigger dogs.

Here is the new travelogue of sorts, kap kun kap for your interest

We have been in Thailand now for just over a week, seemingly in constant transit. After settling in to a laid-back guesthouse in Bangkok, complete with a pool and one warm shared shower (savior of Lauren’s induction into Thailand), we almost immediately absconded to Kho Samet, a bustling bourgeois island only four hours away from Bangkok. Here we plotted our next steps in finding respectable volunteer placements, or meant to at least. Instead, we drove around on our moped and tried unsuccessfully to find some small snorkel site within swimming range of the island. We then returned to Bangkok for a day, proceeding then by night-train to Chiang Mai, the unofficial capital of the north. Outside of the mostly tourist-inhabited central city, there is little of the charm or character that we had been anticipating. On account of the massive tourist throngs and considerable expat population, one could very easily lose track of it being a Thai city. Without much luck in finding a responsive organization (it would appear Thailand is too developed for many of our purposes – offices schedule small meetings weeks in advance, demand letters of intent in writing, and most grievously, many expect stiff weekly fees, upwards of $500, for the privilege of paying to travel to a foreign land and work for free. At what point does free long-term labor become objectionable?), Lauren and I left for Chiang Rai, four hours to the north, in hopes of greater access to organizations. Yesterday we had some luck in contacting a few offices that arranged meetings and contacts, but we have accepted that no real progress is imminent in the near future; Lauren has, on the side, undertaken to play with elephants as soon and as often as possible. With any luck, we will have found and joined organizations within the next two weeks; in the meantime, the border town of Mae Sai, nestled up against Burma/Myanmar’s underbelly, seems like the next logical stop in our foray into begging to assist people.