Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Cow Hugs and a Pajama Party


It must be before five, yet the rooster insists that it is morning.  The heat has already descended on my room, but I ignore it, soaking up the cool waves from the fan.  Less than an hour later my door flies open and Mae descends upon my bed.  “Amy!” she shrieks as if we have not seen each other in years.  It has been six hours.   Though I know she doesn’t understand, but I groan a response in English because it is far too early for my brain to start processing Thai.  Mae is fourteen and loaded with energy.  She insists that I rise out of bed to come assist her in feeding the monks.  After more groaning I decide this is a worthy activity even if it is a Sunday meant for sleeping. 

Outside we kneel in the gravel in our pajamas as the line of monks comes to pass us by.  We place ramen and dry rice in their silver bowls, careful not to touch them.  Mae instructs me to bow and kneel as if I haven’t done this several times before.  Though I am a teacher in the community, I am often reminded how much I have to learn.  The monks continue on and I dream of snuggling back into my hard bed, but that dream will have to come to pass as well.  Instead, I sit cross legged on the floor of the wooden house, joining my host family for a breakfast of sticky rice and vegetables.  Normally I enjoy Thai food but today’s vegetables taste like a dog kennel smells.  I nibble on the rice.

Even though it is summer break in Thailand, the children rise early to play loudly.  I laze around, relishing in the English words on the page of my book.  After two cups of bitter Nescafe I resolve to practice reading Thai, which is slightly more productive but a far slower process.  Naturally, I am quickly bored of this process and decide to see what the neighborhood children are up to.  They are in the street, screaming and throwing water on passing motorbikes.  Even though we just ate breakfast they are ready to hop over to the closest noodle shop for lunch.  I’m happy for food that doesn’t remind me of hairballs.

I order my noodle soup, sans meatballs and the whole restaurant murmurs about the strange foreigner who doesn’t eat meat.  I douse my soup with chili pepper and this gives me bonus points even if I didn’t eat the meat.  There are at least four condiments on every table and the kids make sure they add them all to their soup, including several tablespoons of sugar.  After the soup is gone they order condensed milk and sugar blended with neon colors which they call delicious, but I pass on it. 

Once everyone has come down from their sugar highs the hottest time of day has dropped like a sheet from the sky, signaling nap time.  A handful of teens lie spread on the thin mattress on the ground floor of the house, watching Thai music videos until they fall asleep.    I feign tiredness until they are all soundly asleep around me, whence I carefully remove myself from the mattress and sneak outside.  Thais are incredibly social creatures, which is what makes them so fun to be around, but as a independent American it often exhausts me.  I look forward to nap time as my time to just ‘be’ without an audience.

I quietly roll my bicycle out of the carport and head for the open road.  My host family has all the right intentions, but is still obscenely protective.  Even riding my bike solo is considered dangerous, thus the only time I am able to sneak off alone for some exercise is while everyone sleeps.  Though it is the hottest time of day, it is the nicest time to ride because the whole community is sleeping, making me less of a target to be gawked at. Of course, there are always the straggling children who refuse sleep and stand guard with their buckets of water. 

Thailand celebrates its New Year by throwing water on every moving thing in sight.  I take the mountain road, hoping there will be less people standing armed, but by the time my wheels leave the pavement and find the dirt road I am already soaked from head to toe.  The dirt road goes for nearly five miles, winding up and down the mountainside.  Farmers drive by me on their motorbikes, carrying huge bundles of baby corn and toothless grins.  Some people even stop dead in their tracks at the sight of a foreigner on this desolate road in Northern Thailand.  The bright green helmet is a bit of a giveaway.

The sounds of Thai pop music and traffic fade away and I find myself at the end of the road, gazing out at a large lake hidden like a whisper in a crowd.  I sit on the log, allowing myself a moment to breathe and allow the sweat to stop pouring down my temples.  Although I am constantly surrounded by people with watchful eyes, I am suffering from a new kind of loneliness.  The kind where I crave to be alone, crave to be somewhere where I am not the object of attention.  I have taken on a level of fame in the community that makes me want to hide within my own skin.  Of course that would be the worst place to hide since it was my skin color that made me famous. 

The mountains are ringing in a melodic song from the bells jangling from the cows’ necks as they cross through the hills.  A herd of them cross in front of me, most of them oblivious to my presence, with the exception of one cow that has stopped in its tracks at the sight of me.  She watches me curiously as I bravely walk toward her.  It occurs to me that no one had probably ever shown the slightest form of affection to these creatures.  Then again, cows probably do not crave affection like us unfortunate humans.  In my own search for comfort in a foreign land, I cautiously reached out my hand to pet this strange creature.  To my surprise the cow seemed to enjoy being pet and even took a step closer to me when I initially pulled away.  She then lowered her head and rested it against my thigh, coming as close as a cow can come to hugging.  I was touched, and not just by the cow drool that was dripping onto my toes.  The farmer was calling the cows home and with some resistance my new friend left me and headed for the pasture.  I returned to my bike with a renewed sense of belonging. 

When I returned home I was instructed to shower and change my clothes because we were going to a party.  In this rural farming community getting ready meant choosing my cleanest pajama bottoms and leaving my hair down.  Everything seemed very hurried so I rushed to get ready only to sit on the porch waiting for the girls to powder their noses for another hour.  When we finally departed I climbed into the back of the truck with a handful of other neighbors, grateful that fancy hairdos were a thing of the past. 

The parties here often remind me of high school when someone’s parents would go out of town.  The boys sit in a circle on the floor of one side of the room, the ladies on the other.  There is blaring bad pop music that everyone is drunkenly singing along to and occasionally a female dance party will erupt.  The notable exception is that instead of Doritos and card games in the center of the circle, there are dozens of bowls filled with a variety of noodle and rice dishes.  As soon as I sit down in the ladies circle several of these bowls are thrust in front of me.  Regardless of how many times I claim to be full, several different people will instruct me to eat throughout the night.  

The women offer me a drink which I accept, asking for only a small amount of liquor.  One must be precarious when drinking in Thailand because in many circles it is not appropriate for a woman to drink or smoke, so I am always careful to feel out the water first.  Or in this case, the whisky.  
My host mother seemed very concerned that I was drinking, even though her glass was being constantly refilled.  I assure her that even though I am a volunteer, I am also an adult and I am allowed to drink alcohol.  She still insists that I have only one drink.  I press on, promising that Americans drink a lot of whisky.  This seems to put her at ease and I realize her concern was that I had never had whisky before and would get very ill.  That’s cute. 

There have been all sorts of firsts in Thailand.  My big nose is revered, my chubby tummy is often publicly discussed, and I am suddenly the tallest person in the room.  Sometimes I think life in this cow field is so boring I might lose my mind, but then again where else could I find myself hugging cows and dancing in my pajamas while elderly women pinch my rice belly?

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