Monks: Can't Keep 'Em Down

This article appeared several days ago in The Nation, a major newspaper here in Thailand:

"Soccer-mad monks hit for missing alms-giving"

- Chiang Mai

Local villagers have complained that monks and novices in this northern province have been watching World Cup matches throughout the night, causing them to skip their morning walk to beg for alms.

A woman who asked that her name be withheld said she and her family had prepared food to give to monks at a temple on the occasion of her birthday.

However, at the temple she found a sign saying the abbot was not in.

So she gave alms to a monk who told her that most monks had been watching all the World Cup matches and were too exhausted to wake up next morning.

When she was about to leave the temple, she saw the abbot and some other bleary-eyed monks stumbling from the residence where the sign declared that the abbot was not in.

Wallop Namwongprom, a member of a monks' administration committee, said it was not against the rules for monks to watch football.

"But their viewing TV will be considered against the rules if it affects their morning activities," he said.

It would surely be considered a serious violation if they were involved in gambling, he said.

"We beg senior monks to act properly and warn their juniors to refrain from any improper activities concerning the World Cup," he said.

Meanwhile, Phra Kru Sophonkaweewat, deputy abbot of Jedee Lung Wiharn Temple in Chiang Mai, said the temple has a school and a university for monks under its jurisdiction, attended by some 700 ordained students.

"We have issued strict regulations for the student monks during the World Cup," he said.

"We allow them to watch some matches but they are prohibited from watching all of them and engaging in noisy cheering.

"And no gambling is allowed," he said.

"If anyone violates the rules or excessive TV viewing affects their studies, the maximum penalty is dismissal, he said.

(End of article)

We discussed this article in my classes, and people were relatively split on whether or not the monks should be allowed to watch all of the matches. It seemed like most of the Christian students were okay with it, but some of my Buddhist students - one in particular - said they are monks and have chosen to make certain sacrifices. The vast majority of students said a little bit of football is fine.

My camera seems to be mal-functioning. I took somewhere around 200 pictures and 10 video segments since the last time I loaded photos onto my computer, but these files aren't loading. So I'm still using old pictures on the blog. Does anyone have any suggestions? They would be much appreciated.

Maybe It's Not Okay

It is 1:33 am. Luckily my fellow intern and I cleared off our plates for tomorrow morning - that is, we canceled our Burmese class for the morning - so the France-Spain match will not be a problem. It will be watched! However, that leaves me with 25 minutes (2 minutes for those last few words) to meditate on a question that has been hanging out in my head with all the consistency of a Western at Bai Fern Restaurant - read: ALL THE TIME.

Is it okay for me to return to Columbia in the fall?

Turn your alarms off - I have no plans to hunker down here in Mae Sot and forget the ol' college try. Ain't gonna happen. However, my good friend Anubha aka "Nubhs" (choose your own spelling) asked in a previous comment (http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19641725&postID=114985288651166578) how I feel about working for an incredibly under-served population, only to return to air conditioning, hot showers, and $15 meals on campus in the fall.

To Nubhs I say: good question.

I don't know.

There are people here who make me feel like a tourist. One guy I met asked me, "How long are you staying?" I said, "About 2 months. And you?" He said, "I have been here for 10 years." He was from one of the malaria research units; he started the research unit. Tonight I spoke with someone else I've been hanging out with here. We were talking about how people who are new to the town often don't understand the precautions people talk about political secrecy here. Usually people will say to someone they've never met before that they are "just a tourist." This becomes awkward when you continue seeing this person for the next few weeks. Usually after two meetings or so you reveal your position.

The funny thing about this conversation was that she and I had never had an official introduction, but I knew she was working with someone who I speak with quite often. She asked me, "So what are you doing here anyway?" I said, "I'm just a tourist." () On the other hand, then, there are a few real tourist who do stumble into this town. One pair of women from Canada apparently asked a friend of mine, "What's a Burmese?"

I am a tourist, and I am not a tourist. Is it okay for me to hang out for a summer and then return to NYC? Who will benefit? Is there any way for me to do any permanent good while I'm here? Probably not. Two months is too short. Am I growing as a person while I'm here? Am I gaining from my experience? Definitely. Is my stay here, then, selfish in some way? Probably.

I don't know if this is acceptable to me or not. When I check in at Brooklynvegan or Gorilla Vs. Bear, I find that I do miss something about the United States. But what kind of life is there in that kind of thing? What life is there in stumbling from bar to bar in Brooklyn, feeding one's ears with "the latest" and wearing black jeans? (I would add growing a beard, but this kind of thing is impossible for me.)

There are two minutes until game time. Basically, I am not sure whether or not I can justify returning to NYC after this summer. Will I return? Yes. Is that okay? Maybe not. The machinery of self-reinforcement works in mysterious ways. Kind of like God.

(Happy 61st)

"Please use your liberty to promote ours." Daw Aung San Suu Kyi

Border Sounds

This is going to be my quickest blog posting ever, as the previous one took almost 3 hours. I'm super tired from staying up to watch the first half of the France match last night, which made it seem like the second half would be fine. It was not. Whoever put the hex on that team meant some serious business, and I'm not talking Italian football scandal business.

This playlist is for one of my students. On the first day of class, he said he likes to play the guitar. He even says he really loves country music! (Unfortunately, my Hank Williams collection, shallow though it is, is not with me here in Thailand.) It's the style of the guitar he enjoys about country - easygoing, good for pre-sleep music, he said. So I tried to track down my acoustic goods that might be similarly applicable.

1. "Good To See You" Neil Young
2. "Way Over Yonder In The Minor Key" Wilco & Billy Bragg
3. "Red River Valley" Woody Guthrie
4. "Seven Swans" Sufjan Stevens
5. "Hell Hound On My Trail" Robert Johnson
6. "Trouble" Ray LaMontagne
7. "Cruel War" Peter, Paul, and Mary
8. "Pink Moon" Nick Drake
9. "Winning A Battle, Losing The War" Kings of Convenience
10. "Heartbeats" Jose Gonzalez
11. "All My Trials" Joan Baez
12. "Lover, You Should Have Come Over" Jeff Buckley
13. "Brushfire Fairy Tales" Jack Johnson
14. "Sodom, South Georgia" Iron & Wine
15. "Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots, Pt. 1" The Flaming Lips
16. "Rose Parade" Elliott Smith
17. "Now That I Know" Devendra Banhart
18. "The Greatest" Cat Power
19. "My Back Pages" Dylan

There were actually no political considerations that went into this playlist. Hopefully he likes it. I hope all is well with y'all.

(Gratuitous Buddha tourism shot.)

Early Teaching Impressions

My internship finally began this week. I think I can go ahead and - with little fear from "the authorities" - say that I am teaching English. (There are so many people teaching English here that I don't think the Thai police could really nab everyone, even if they were so inclined, which they are probably not.) I'm teaching twice a day: once to students who are about my age, and once to staff of the NGO that shall remain nameless. Theoretically, at least, I'm also helping conduct research for the NGO; three hours of teaching per day, though, leaves me spending most of my time (so far, at least) preparing for class.

The students who are more or less my age - in the 18-25 range - live about 20 minutes outside of Mae Sot by pick-up truck. The classroom itself is actually quite nice, and the students are well-enough supplied in terms of paper, pens, etc. They are all from Burma, but their ethnicities vary widely: Mon, Shan, Karen, Kayen, Karenni, Chin, Kachin, Arakan, etc. - all of these states are represented in my class. Many of these students, a strong majority of whom are female, grew up in refugee camps or on the run as IDP's in Eastern Burma. One student was born in a refugee camp. None of them live in the camps now, though.

Their English skills are really quite impressive. On the first day of class, we discussed international politics, the place of the United States in the world ("big economic power," they said; "occupiers of Iraq"), some key words from an article I brought (marginalized, impoverished, rampant, indigenous, multilateral - none of these words were any trouble for them), and, of course, football. Ronaldhino's their favorite player. On the second day of class (the third is yet to come), I played some Neil Young for them and they all began singing along without any prompting. "Good to See You": we were working on how to introduce people to one another. I also showed a clip from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but they had a little more trouble following that. The one line they seemed to enjoy was when Butch says to Woodcock, "Would you shut up about that E.H. Harriman and open that door?!"


My other class, that composed of staffers from the NGO, seems to be much less advanced. They were thoroughly confused by Butch Cassidy. And the vocab from the article - they definitely had a tough time with those words. There are 1 or 2 out of a revolving total of about 8 people who are quite excellent, but the others have had very little English instruction in the past. And the office is much more sparsely supplied than the rural classroom: there is no chalkboard to be found, for example.

These students are incredible, though, in terms of what they've already accomplished. As with my rural class, one student was born and raised in a refugee camp, but there's one student who *still lives* in a refugee camp. And he manages to work this full-time job. He left Burma in 1988, where he was an organizer of the student uprisings with ABSDF: All-Burma Student Democratic Front. Splitting with ABSDF over violent vs. non-violent tactics (he stays true to the latter), he managed to make his way to the refugee camp, where he has lived for about the past 10 years. Several years ago he secured an "Identity Card" that allows him to travel to and from the camp on a regular basis. He worries, he says, about being "picked up" - but so far so good, and he's been at this NGO for a decent amount of time now. I don't think I said too much there...


One time on my way back to the office from the rural class, I rode in the back of the pick-up truck, because some of the students we were taking into town don't have papers, and apparently Thai police stop trucks like this all the time. I guess they're more likely to ask the people in the back of the truck. On the ride yesterday, a student inside the cab with me enjoyed singing "Good to See You" on the way back to town. While I was waiting for the truck that time, I played multiple games of table tennis with my students. They're quite good. The table, balls, and racquets are in not-so-great shape, of course, but they play quite a bit, I gather. The student who often wears the Barcelona jersey - he speaks less English than most of those students, but communication via ball and racquet worked pretty well. In a way, the back-and-forth-give-and-take of the table mirrors the kind of interaction I want with the students. As I told them, I have as much to learn from them as they have to learn from me. Every moment of communication - every time the ball crosses the net, if you will - changes the action of or attitude of both participants. Dewey's intersubjectivity...

I was riding back to the guest house from Kung's last night, disappointed that Ivory Coast hadn't triumphed over Holland. The streets were completely empty. What are the approximately 100,000 Burmese migrant workers doing tonight?, I wondered. Are they asleep in their houses right now, or do they lie awake, swatting mosquitos, dreaming waking dreams? What do they say to one another before they turn in for the night? What are their thoughts before their eyes close? What kind of thoughts do they think about the coming day?


In Mae Sot, it's easy to lose oneself in fantasies of self-righteousness. Look at all the good work I'm doing! one is tempted to say. For NGO workers here, life is plenty comfortable. Insulating oneself from the struggle that defines this town is so easy it can even be unconscious. I, personally, think I need to feel my environs more. Soon, I anticipate having an opportunity to do so.

(I've taken a few pictures at my workplace, but it would be foolish for me to post them. Thus, I offer some more pictures from the surrounding countryside, which is spectacularly beautiful. And some from in town, too, and some from a monastery near the border. In the picture at the top, the mountains in the background are in Burma. We're that close.)

Football And The King

Or, Common Ground in a Fractured World Part II

FOOTBALL

Like I said in the last post, all of the 8pm World Cup matches donated their first 20 or so minutes of television coverage to reporting on the coronation ceremonies located primarily in Bangkok. Thus, two incredibly unifying ideas dissolve into one another: football and the king. The former connects people across borders around the world, and the latter connects Thais across political divisions around the country.

I had always heard that Southeast Asia is football-obsessed. And yes, the markets here sell bundles of bootleg gear, and I bought a sweet France ball in town. (At about $15, 'twas a pricey buy.) However, on the opening night of the World Cup - 9 June, for those of you who are a) American or b) newly relocated to beneath a rock - the bars were closed by around 11pm and there were few people on the streets. As it turns out, bars were ordered closed for the night for the holiday. Nevertheless, I found myself with a somewhat non-diverse group of people diversely Western. The United States, Germany, Austria, France, Holland, Australia, Northern Ireland, Colombia, and Britain were all represented in a group of people who piled in the back of two pick-up trucks - true to Thai style, with open Chang beers in hands - to go to someone's house where we watched the opening Germany-Costa Rica match on a big screen.


Every night I watch a bit of the matches, whether it's here at the guest house, at Kung's, Mae Sot Villa, etc. When I come back, the Burmese night watchman at the guest house is always tuned in. We communicate by facial expression, hand gestures, and the occasional, expressive, monosyllabic (for lack of a better word) grunts. He knows; I know. In my English class, I was having trouble drawing a response from my students on the first day. Then I brought up football and suddenly we were in the midst of a lively conversation. My students, mostly people (a majority female) who fled Burma and spent much of their lives in refugee camps, are experts on football. They love Ronaldhino. One of my students has worn a Barcelona jersey the past two days. Having established an amicable relationship about a mutual love for the world's game, today he and I played another game common to much of the non-American world: table tennis. (I won. Haha.)

I've never met so many people from all over the world as here in Mae Sot. Oftentimes these chance introductions occur in party settings, at NGO meetings, etc. And whenever I'm lacking for a conversation piece, I always turn to football, and it never fails me.

A final anecdote. On my way back to the guest house from a game of ultimate frisbee with some French people and a Colombian (I'm permanently staying away from using names from now on, by the way.), I got lost and wound up at the edge of a football field. On one edge of the field was some sort of large warehouse - perhaps a garment factory, since more than 10,000 Burmese "illegals" work in Mae Sot sweatshops - and on the other side was a rickety fence with a stream. The goals were more or less two-dimensional, with wooden posts forming a simple rectangle, and no nets. At one end of the field was an open, thatched structure where several Burmese were squatting, some were standing, watching the game. Only one team seemed to have common jerseys, and plenty of players were without shoes. I couldn't tell what material the ball was made from, but the field itself was full of holes and that stream wandered through it a bit, too. There were at least the standard 22 on the field, but I didn't count. I watched for a while, amazed at the enthusiasm on the field and glad for what must be a welcome diversion from the immense struggle of these players' everyday lives.


In a world seemingly driven by divide-and-rule campaigns like the War on Terror, divisions of all kinds within the human species seem to be increasing, not decreasing. Post-modern fragmentation takes its place in world history. Visions of unity, then, - expressions of commonality, evocations of oneness - become something akin to forms of resistance, testaments to the sometimes eloquence of the "natural course of things." Football and the King: a two-part prayer for common ground.

Long Live the King, and Ole, Ole, Ole!

The Mexico-Angola match is about to begin. I'm hoping for Angola.

(The sports shops in town sell quite a bit of football gear. Top picture.)

Football And The King

Or, Common Ground in a Fractured World Part I

THE KING

As I mentioned in a previous post, last Friday and the subsequent Monday and Tuesday were declared a national holiday in celebration of the 60th anniversary of the King's coronation. The way people here rally around their King is quite awe-inspiring to an American like myself. Beginning on 9 June and proceeding through 15 June, every single front page of The Nation - the leading English-language newspaper in Thailand - was devoted entirely to showing love and respect for the King. "King of Hearts"; "Our Beloved King"; "A Royal Celebration"; etc. I wish I had the papers in front of me: the selection of headlines is really quite remarkable.

My conclusion? Let's import monarchy to the United States.

Mae Sot was a sea of yellow shirts the entire last week. I bought mine for 130 baht - about $4 - and have thoroughly enjoyed feeling a part of the common experience. Such a coming together I have never before witnessed. One headline in The Nation - maybe 3 or 4 pages inside of it - read something to the effect of "Political Quarreling On Hold For King's Holiday." That seems to me to be the most valuable part of the entire coronation holiday - its (apparently) wholesale transcendence of politics. The April elections here were extraordinarily divisive, and the front page of today's Nation, the first in a week not to be drowned in the color yellow, reported 40 separate bombings in the southern Thailand. Nevertheless, the people here were glued to their televisions to watch the celebrations in Bangkok. Coverage of the coronation events even pre-empted the first 20-30 minutes of every 8pm World Cup match during the holiday. The Brits, perhaps less impressed by monarchy, were also not impressed with sacrificing football for the King.

When I say the US needs a monarchy, then, - and I've said it several times over the past few days - I'm really only about 60% kidding. As for that other 40%, well - one needs only take stock of the bitter divisions in the United States to see what a tonic some unity could be. I'm not talking political unity, either; Unity 08 is a pathetic farce of an idea that I hope will never come to any kind of fruition. I'm talking about a unity that is fundamentally *apolitical*, something that would completely and utterly transcend politics - something the entire country really could share. There are, of course, plenty of reasons why finding this kind of common ground would be difficult or even impossible in the United States, but I personally have a strong hunch that George Washington was on a mission from God. And no one can argue with the Divine Right of Kings. Rewriting national history seems to be a daily agenda item for the Bush administration, so I ask: Why stop now?

(That picture shows just one of the shops selling the yellow t-shirts on sale for the holiday; nearly every street stall and storefront vendor is offering these shirts. This particular vendor is in the Day Market.)

World Cup Heartbreak

Team USA, RIP. What a tough night at Kung's. This match was really really hard to watch. To see America still very much adrift in the world's game - what a tough night.

Andrew Canales, from ESPN: "It's time for the flag to fly in their hearts, even if it's not painted on the bus. The sports clichés are there because sometimes they are real. It's time to put up, or shut up. Because in this case, it really is all about the ball, and about knowing what to do with it at the right time. Nothing else matters. Win, or go home."

Photo from NYT.

(I'm missing some of my camera gear, otherwise I'd have tons more posts up right now. Football, the King, Mae Sot generally, migrant schools, etc. Soon, hopefully.)

The First Few Days

My internship was supposed to start yesterday, but some confusion over phone numbers and meetings prevented my commencement. So I've basically been hanging out, exploring the town a bit, doing a lot of reading, etc. Reading-wise, I finished "The Glass Palace" and began two others: Galeano's "Soccer in Sun and Shadow" and Descartes' "Meditations on First Philosophy." Galeano's an awe-inspiring writer, pure and simple. That Descartes fellow, though - dunno bout him.

Today I went with yet another Burmese artist - there seem to be an abundance of them here - for a little tour. He took me to SAW, which stands for Social Action for Women. The organization began as a women's group but has really expanded in quite a few ways. They have a school with more than 200 hundred students now, a safe house for women in danger, a crisis center for women, an orphanage, and plenty of other services as well. Primarily SAW serves the migrant worker population, and they are one of the first organizations that began to do so. My internship won't begin until Wednedsay now - Thailand declared today, Monday, and Tuesday a national holiday for the 60th anniversary of the King's coronation - so I will return to SAW to hang with the kids, help out a bit, etc. early next week.

Then I went to the artist's house, where he showed me quite a collection of his work. It's mostly charcoal pieces with some pastels, focusing on monks, children, and students. Tomorrow night he'll be auctioning a piece along with two other Burmese artists to raise funds for the Free Burma Rangers. I really, really liked their work. They also run a small art school. My tour guide and I passed a student on the street who said he'd just won first prize in an art contest today - my guide was very proud, as this student is a student of his.

Since my last post, I'm planning on being a little more careful about names, so I'll leave more people anonymous. I also realized I probably shouldn't post pictures of myself. Ah! - the luxuries of political tomfoolery.

(The top picture - at least I think it'll come up as the top one - I took at the "Day Market," possibly my favorite part of Mae Sot so far. I bought a pair of bootleg Arsenal shorts there today. The bottom picture is from just outside of Mae Sot. Mountains surround the town on all sides, it seems, and rice paddies extent in every direction. Praise the longyi.)

Settling In At Mae Sot

Wow - there's so much to catch up on. I'll try to be brief.

The flight was incredibly painless. They even had Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid as one of the inflight movie selections - along with The Constant Gardener and The Big Wednesday, a terrible, terrible surfing movie from the 1970s with some really amazing surfing footage.

I thought I was gonna be all savvy getting from the airport to my hotel in BKK, but I was out-savvied by the taxi driver, surely one of the savviest species around. My plan was to insist on the meter, but no luck. I insisted three times, only to be rebuffed three times with the claim that "big cabs" - ours was kind of SUVish - don't use meters. So I overpaid. Ah well. The hotel was beautiful, clean, etc, but a mere stopping point.

In the morning, after a somewhat fitful, jet-lagged attempt at sleep, I hit up the BKK Sky Train to the Mo Chit station, where I realized I basically didn't know where I was going. I knew I was looking for a bus terminal that would offer buses to Mae Sot, but I didn't know its name, how to get there, etc. After a long, difficult, pseudo-English conversation with some lifesavers at the Sky Train ticket counter, I found out the name of the bus terminal. None of the taxis down on the street could understand me, though, so I wrote it on a sheet of paper and finally someone said yes. A woman from the south of France - traveling through Southeast Asia for the next several months - joined me in the taxi. At the bus terminal - The Northern Bus Terminal - I tracked down my ticket booth, paid for my ticket, and proceeded to wait 8 hrs for my bus to leave at 21:00. It was hot. Plus I had my huge hiking bag and my smaller day-hike bag. I couldn't so much as buy a bottle of water without hauling about 75 pounds with me. I read until I got sleepy, at which point I crashed on the floor in the vicinity of someone reading Vanity Fair. Should I strike up a conversation with her? I decided to let my eyes close instead. Before I boarded my bus, I saw her a few more times. I had some amazing Thai fried rice in the terminal. Mmmm - Thai food.

The bus ride was overnight, air-conditioned, cramped, generally excellent, sleep-inducing, etc. I slept well. We stopped at some sort of market around 1:00 before continuing on to Mae Sot. As we rolled into this sizable town, the sun was rising, silhouetting the mountains ringing us on all sides. I got out of the bus, realizing I didn't know whether or not my guest house was yet open. It was about 5:30. I assumed it was not, though I tried calling, only to be defeated by a very uncooperative pay phone. Taxi drivers were hounding me to get in with them, as I was clearly the most obvious of prey. I wasn't sure what to do - Would I be able to just hang out on the street until my guest house would open? - and rather stressed (tired, too) when somewhat "out of nowhere" (i.e. from an arriving bus) the Vanity Fair reader from the bus terminal magically appeared. Did I need a ride? I supposed I did (playing it cool, you know how it is). A definite relief.

(Her name). From Montreal. The person who came to pick her up was fine with me jumping in, too, and they dropped me off at the guest house. I hung here for a while, reading, meeting people who were up and about, until eventually my room opened up. (I am so lucky to be here. I hope that comes across.) As I was busy unpacking my wares, (name) - the incredibly friendly person who seems to be part-manager-part-everyone's-best-friend - said a friend had come by. She of Montreal took me on a little tour of the town, we had lunch, etc. It turns out she and I are doing really similar work. We also know many of the same people. She was even at the US Campaign for Burma conference in April, where, she says, she remembers me introducing myself as in need of contacts for my upcoming summer in Mae Sot. It's incredibly reassuring that she's around. (I am a definite outsider here.)

This is a very superficial narrative. I plan on offering something more reflective soon. Quickly, some impressions - the market, particularly. She of Montreal and I dodged motorbikes and dipped into street stalls in this narrow, winding assemblage of vendors occupying a few blocks of the town. There were definitely some disturbing products in the raw meat/fish category, as well as some really mouth-watering displays of (cooked) food. Colorful chaos, with an easy breeze carrying a pleasant aroma. (The durien - spelling? - interrupted some of that pleasant aroma.)

Finally... I was talking with a Burmese painter who also works as a medic at Dr. Cynthia's famed Mei Tao Clinic down the road. I told him my father's name and he said Oooh! High society - a city boy, yes? I had to agree, more or less. (Hi dad!) He must be very wealthy, the painter said, basing his observation on the name only. Then I said his mother - my grandmother, of course - knows Dr. Cynthia. The manager here overheard, and he asked me her name. I told him. Ah!, he said. He knew of her husband, a.k.a. my grandfather. The manager knew all about him, but he expressed his knowledge hesitantly, as if he personally was not quite okay with the work my grandfather did in the 1950s. (My grandfather worked in education in Burma.) I can tell they've sort of pegged me as an upper-class Burman, which, I suppose, is not incorrect. I don't think that's bad that they see me that way, though - they all seem very friendly. The manager seems particularly proud of the fact that I'm interning with the (NGO that will remain nameless) - Burmese need people like you, he says.

One final coincidence from a day full of coincidences. Another lodger here grew up on 5th Avenue (he admits it sheepishly) before moving to Boulder, Colorado. I told him I spent a year in Utah. I have to ask, then, he said. Are you the Alta type or the Snowbird type? I smiled: I spent that year as a liftie at Alta, I answered. I am the Alta type. I could tell he appreciated that.

So far, I could ask for nothing better. I'll stop now, as this is quite a long post. I'm sitting outside on their veranda with the guy from 5th Ave. That easy breeze is keeping me very comfortable. So I'll be in touch quite a bit, I expect. If you've made it to the end of this message, please leave me a comment! Let me know how you are...

(One picture is the road leading into the "downtown" section of Mae Sot, and the other is a random stand-up advertisement thought I found visually interesting. Cheers!)

From Joyce's "Portrait"... :

26 April: Mother is putting my new secondhand clothes in order. She prays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life and away from home and friends what the heart is and what it feels. Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.

27 April: Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.

Leaving New York

If you're checking this for the first time, welcome. I plan on trying to force myself to publish at least once a week while I'm at the Thai-Burma border, where I'll be interning with the (NGO that will remain unnamed). I'll be teaching English to staff and interns, and if I'm lucky, I'll be able to teach at the refugee camps, as well.

There's one rule: PLEASE DO NOT USE MY NAME if you respond to any of my posts. There is some slight chance it could jeopardize the work I'm hoping to do this summer. Unlikely, yes, but possible nonetheless. Clearly anyone with half a brain could track my name easily enough, but still - the type of people I'm worried about don't half a brain.

I'm skeptical of blogs - namely because they're severely impersonal - but there are a few reasons why I think this format could work. For one, blogs are not exclusive. Anyone can see this by word of mouth, without a password, without a personal connection, etc. Furthermore, I can continue to make use of this when I return to the US and when I go to Mongolia in the spring (crossing fingers). So there is an element of permanence at work in my decision-making, as well. Lastly, I just really think it could work. I think there is potential for multi-personal discourse in the response section that is absent in email communication. I really want people to leave me comments, too, so I won't feel lonely!

Enough about blogs.

This is my last night in New York. I've been having a really hard time trying to make this trip real to myself, and I've been trying to figure out why. Certainly a ridiculously stressful finals season had something to do with it, but even since I've been home, I've had trouble imagining what my summer will be like. Even now, the fact that I will be in Bangkok in less than 48 hours kind of blows my mind.

One reason for this has to have something to do with my family background. Southeast Asia, to me, is a place perpetually shrouded in a mythical mist. The only stories I hear about it are couched in a willful idealism. Mango trees, mohinga (a type of fish soup), and golden pagodas figure prominently in my family lore. How am I to gain any true understanding of the world I am about to join? Even stories of political repression exist within the framework of the democracy movement, a movement that is - especially in its emphasis on non-violence - singularly idealistic.

Another reason for my inability to make real to myself the trip I am about to undertake touches on, I think, global hierarchy. The "developing world" - a term with which I am deeply uncomfortable, by the way - is nearly invisible to the "developed world." How could I possibly know what to expect? If I were to go Germany, Spain, or Italy, for example - three other countries I've never visited - I would have far less trouble being able to imagine my trip. Even China, I would guess, would be easier to imagine. Quite simply, places like Burma and Thailand - along with, certainly, much of sub-Saharan Africa, parts of South and Central America, etc. - don't exist in the popular imagination of the so-called West. And to the small extent that they do, they exist as visions of poverty, grainy evocations of struggle and despair, condemned to places of hyperbole - like dramatic photojournalism projects, sensationalist films, overwrought newscasts, etc. - rather than reality. I don't like the metaphor of a divided world - binaries are inherently simplistic - but I can't help thinking I will be crossing some sort of threshold when I board my flight tomorrow.

I've been oscillating back and forth between a happy excitement and a nervous apprehension. Once I've reached Mae Sot and settled into some kind of routine, I think I will be much relieved. I do think I need some disruption, though, in my quietly comfortable life.

From one picture to the other, I set out. (I'm not sure what order they're in.) Please forgive, if you would be so kind, one last Kerouac quote: "So shut up, live, travel, adventure, bless, and dont be sorry - "

Summer Reading List

"The Glass Palace," by Amitav Ghosh
"Moby Dick," by Herman Melville
"On the Road," by Jack Kerouac
"Mexico City Blues," by Jack Kerouac
"Guerrilla Warfare," by Che Guevara
"The Selected Poems of Federico Garcia Lorca," by FG Lorca
"Soccer in Sun and Shadow," by Eduardo Galeano
"Discourse on Method" and "Meditations on First Philosophy," by Descartes

Note: Fanon and Milton got cut at the last second when I realized there's just no way I could have made it to them.

Also, for the record, this is my third time reading "On the Road." It's good for the soul. I also plan to do some writing this summer, and Kerouac has a way of putting me in the mood. Kerouac's own advice to a friend about writing: "Don't be afraid to try benzedrine: start writing about 30 minutes after you've taken benzedrine, have mucho hot coffee, cup after cup, beside you (a Samovar!) and your cigarettes right there at hand...and wirte almost with your eyes closed, not thinking of punctuation or capitals or anything, that comes later when you type of doublespace for manuscript neat."

My profile picture is actually me. Ah, but I was so much older then - I'm younger than that now.