Days since last report: about 4
Number of times I've said sawidee-chaaaaaaaao: about 23,000
So there we were, waiting, kicking our heels (for my friend, literally kicking her heels, as she's over a head shorter than I) on the bench next to some monks. Yes, monks are people too, and they also take the songtheows to get around. I kept my eye on the small herd of red ants busily doing something at the corner of my bench, and I watched with suspicion every time one ventured towards. I'm not a huge fan of insects, and I'm a big "live and let live" kind of person, but I wasn't sure of their intentions but soon figured out if I tapped on the bench they wouldn't come any closer to me. We boarded the shuttle bus with one of the monks and a few others. By shuttle bus, I mean more or less a small pickup, whose covered bed has been modified to add seats along each sides of the bed. There's a button on the cieling when you want to stop, and you can fit at least 20 people in and hanging off the back of the thing - as we would discover on our ride back. It's how mere mortals get around, and as we weren't able to borrow someone's uncle to drive us into town, we took the bus. I was with J., my excited, bird-like little friend who showed me some of the sights of Chiang Mai: temple after temple after temple after temple (which I dutifully photographed but didn't enter). We started off in the (a) market, attracted by a large crowd to the front of the Chinese temple. "?" my friend pointed to where they were apparently giving out some kind of drink, and I nodded. She quickly returned with a brownish drink, which she--by pointing at the thing as we crossed the market--expected to be tamarind juice. It turned out to be terrible-tasting tea, which goes to show that even locals don't know everything. At the wall, she had a tuk tuk driver take our picture, and as we were asked to take pictures for some Israeli tourists, they asked where we're from. I told them I was from the US and my friend from Thailand; he said, "I suppose you don't have any problems with the language, then." "Well," I replied, "I don't speak Thai and she doesn't speak English. But we communicate just fine."
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"He't" he said, placing the dish in front of me. Mushrooms. Ta'kii'ya, chopsticks. Chan, plate. Na'am, water. Na'am'kheng, ice cubes. Na'am'geow, glass. Soom, fork. Slowly, slowly, I learn. "Arroy ma'i ka?" (do you like it / does it taste good). And the answer, bound to set the entire party into fits of laughter: "la'am cha'ao" (Northern dialect), or the more standard "arroy di". They enjoy teaching me words in Thai to expand my budding vocabulary. Sadly, I can't hardly remember any of them, but it's a start at least. I think if I lived here for a few months, with no english speakers to distract me and perhaps a basic grammar and a basic dictionary, I would eventually learn it. My friend's old schoolteacher often tells me words for things, but I can never tell if he's trying to tell me or teach me something.
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J. and I set off on bicycles. I felt I was riding a child's bike, and indeed our bikes were the same size and I doubt she comes up to 4'8". I was actually able to pedal while seated on the luggage rack in the back; but considering we were riding on (for me) the opposite side of the road in a place where traffic is (just) barely organized chaos, I decided to behave myself and ride like a normal person. The result, of course, is that I felt like a frog folded up on a bicycle. Our job: town crier. But secret-like. There was going to be a birthday party and celebration for my friend's birthday and commemoration of her son's death, and a famous singer friend was going to come, so therefore in the interests of seating and space and in a general desire to prevent the whole town from turning out, we were instructed to selectively invite some of the neighbors. I've been staying in this villiage near a small town near a larger town near the city of Chiang Mai, with about perhaps 100 houses tightly huddled along a stretch of road. This is the kind of place where roots run very deep, and indeed the house we are staying in is the one she grew up in, and who knows how many generations lived there before that. A village, like an anthill, is an organic and somehow confederate entity. It has a nature and character all of its own, and so much of the life here -- if for nothing else, in the interests of temperature -- is conducted in the shaded areas in front of the houses. Life is so much more collective and so much more public; such that any trip through the town will inevitably lead to visits with this that and the other neighbor, and it is frequent that friends and family gather for meals and to just sit. The houses come in a wide variety: some, like ours, are more solid, sprawling plaster constructions firmly anchored to the ground; others are built more or less on stilts or pilings, such that the ground floor is garage or open porch space, and the actual house is only on the second floor. I was shown one of these stilt-houses, this one made entirely of dark, lovingly polished wood. The windows were a set of sliding slats which could be opened to let in sunlight or closed at will; there was no need to insulate for cold. Large families, combined with the tradition of referring to everyone as "sister" or "brother" or "uncle" or "aunt" seriously confused my attempts at keeping people straight; I have long given up on all but a few names, but have been able to communicate with and get along with most everyone some how.
The celebration was quite a bit of work, and it seemed like half the town was already involved in the preparation. Trucks arrived bearing plastic chairs, crates of dishes and glasses, drinking water and ice chests. Until into the evening on the preceding day the women were about the snipping and preparing of food, while the men busied themselves with the awnings and chairs and the stoves and everything else, and the work recommenced early in the morning. My job was photographer, which involved wandering around and, you guessed it, taking pictures. Of course, I preferred close-up expressive portraits and candid shots, but as soon as people figured out I was taking a picture everyone would stop, turn, pose, and smile - and worse, everyone would jump into the picture and drag anyone else they could find in with them, such that instead of taking a picture of two people I was taking a picture of twenty, and then everyone always wanted to see. At about 10 the monk arrived, and he was seated on the makeshift dais made by grandpa's bed, supplemented by the wrapped donations (?) of two sets of milk boxes adorned with flowers, and various articles of his trade. At about 10:30 the guests of honor arrived: the famous singer and his entourage. The ceremony itself consisted of intonation of blessings and finally pouring the water, and I was dispatched to take pictures, which I found horribly distracting but no one else seemed to. The singer et al had been greeted by cheers and greetings, and as he sat and ate various tentative family members and neighbours approached to have their picture taken. I don't know how to gauge his fame, but he seems to be recognized more or less wherever he goes--which happened when we were out at lunch in Chiang Mai the day before. But despite all of this, he seems a very warm and straightforward person with a good sense of humor. I like, for example, that his driver is essentially an accessory family member who is not treated as a servant.
As do many people who have connections to different cultures or who live in a different country than that of their birth, my friend seems to be, as they say in German, between two chairs. In many respects, it's clear she's in her element here; her vivacious personality, which sometimes clashes with the reserved Swiss-cum-Internationalism of Geneva, seems to flourish among a veritable flock of lively and talkative people. And yet it's clear she's become accustomed to the way things work in the "developed" world, and is frustrated by the "backwardness" or "small mindedness" (in quotations not because she said it, but because the terms should be taken as illustrative and not pejorative) she sometimes encounters here. And while she tries to change some bits of their world, in the end, she will return to Switzerland and they will get on with their lives however they best can; and when she talks of Switzerland or "the colleagues" or "the office," I can imagine that these terms find little resonance in their world. Perhaps they resent her for it--though I know they are proud of her as well--but her world and theirs intersect in the shaded area in the venn diagram rather than one of a series of concentric circles.
For my part, I feel like everyone's adopted wayward child; they have welcomed me so generously into their lives, homes and hearts. Today particularly I find the elder ladies, even some I have never seen before, heartily grasping my hand or my arm and smiling up at me, which is understandable in any language. I am coddled and spoiled and almost fed to death. Everyone has learned I don't eat meat, which leaves here an astounding range of options open. I particularly like anything made out of pumpkin or mushrooms, and all of their vegetables seem so incredibly flavorful. Most of the stuff I don't even know what it is, but they've assured me it's meatless, but that means it could contain seafood or fish. Here in Northern Thailand they frequently eat sticky rice instead of loose-grained rice, which is rolled into a ball in the palm of the hand and used to scoop food from a communal serving dish. You use your thumb and the ball of rice to pick up a small portion of whatever it is, and then place it directly in your mouth without somehow dropping it in your lap or getting your fingers particularly dirty. I'm learning a lot about Thai people: those who speak English are shy, but they are curious and lively. Friends and strangers alike are greeted with clasped hands and a tipped head, and you should never touch someone's head or step over someone lying on the ground. You are not allowed to let other people buy perfume or deodorant for you (are there any exceptions? I don't know), and you are supposed to keep your head lower than the monk's and the Buddha’s in the temple.
I'm learning also that families work different here: they seem larger and much more connected than the ones I am used to; certainly much different than the typical nuclear family. It is also so that within a family there is a kind of heirarchy, where more senior members are able (expected?) to direct the others. Where "western" (I speak here for the US and perhaps Germany) cultures emphasize the individual, such that all children are, for example, equal within the family but perhaps submissive to the parents, here there is a collective emphasis that one takes care of the family as a whole first. Thus it is not too out of the ordinary that a brother moves in to care for his sister and her aging husband, or more "senior" cousins direct more "junior" ones. I was surprised, for example, that the singer's brother and his wife live with him, and that they maintain the house and help manage his life. From the "western" perspective, I would think that the brother would find this insulting or demeaning, or would grate under his brother's obvious dominance, or be resentful towards his brother's success. Perhaps my perspective is a cynical one, but that was my initial take. But they way they see it here, the singer is taking care of his brother's family by having them live with him in his mansion, and since he contributes financially to the whole thing, it's only fair that the brother and his family contribute to its upkeep.
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