Ants

Let me tell you about something.  The ants in Thailand do not mess around.  They are quick and they are effective (if effective is indeed a word which can be used to describe ants).  I was surprised to find them in my fifth floor apartment (I know what you're thinking--Really, Ben?  You didn't think the ants would be able to figure out five flights of stairs?) on the second day of my living here, but what surprised me more, and has continued to surprise me, is the speed at which they locate any whisper of sugar.  Several times, I have set down a plate, after having eaten the food from it, turned to do something and no more than two minutes later, looked back to see these miniature black fiends beginning to swarm.

I have discovered that in many ways it's easier to just live with the ants.  For the first several days, I was quick to wipe any sort of ant-killing object (a field of possible objects which is larger than I had ever imagined), taking the lives of dozens of ants in one fell swoop;  I went beyond reaction and was proactively seeking out ants and other irritants to extinguish.  Unfortunately, two days of having killed absolutely everything in my apartment, only to discover that they had the resilience of the Danish resistance and the recollective capacity often attributed to goldfish.  At first I thought, These ants don't understand that if they come out they will die?  Then I realized what my mistake was--I was being too thorough.  How could the rest of the ants possibly know the consequences of their actions unless told?  Clearly, the ants had no understanding of the Bermuda Triangle Effect (an effect that I, to the best of my knowledge, just made up), where one usually becomes hesitant to go to a location after numerous amounts of one's contemporaries do not return from that location.  Thus, a new plan was hatched.

I would leave a few survivors, in the hope that my name would soon be spoken only haltingly, in whispers, or not at all out of the fear that the utterance of my handle should somehow conjure my appearance.  I tried to pick the ants that looked like they would exaggerate the accounts of my attacks.  This proved harder than I originally supposed, given that most ants look alike (a notion to which they, like most people/organisms, take a certain amount of offense) and, generally speaking, have no discernable character traits (or at least not the ones for which I was looking).  My plan was less than successful also because I did not take into account the fact that the ants seemed to not care at all that I was murdering their kith and kin; they continued their steadfast task of securing little sugar morsels for themselves or their home.  These ants were the embodiment of James Brown, if he were an ant, and the task at which he was the hardest working ant was not show business, but grubbering away at pomegranate juice on a plate.  I respected this.  Also, I thought "Papa's Got A Brand New Bag" was a good song.

My decision to spare a few quickly grew into a decision to allow more ant activity around the home.  Let's face it, in certain areas, I can be quite lazy.  The continuous, eternal and fruitless job of killing ants had lost its original appeal; I understood now that my swiping merely delayed the inevitable and, having discovered that my name would not be spoken in hushed tones or be the subject of mysterious ant songs, my ant-killing had lost its luster.

Arguably, I could just clean up food faster, but sometimes I like to wait and see if the food will come off on its own.  Let's call that an experiment.  It isn't going particularly well.

I was given the advice, after discovering a cereal box from which only one bowl of cereal had been prepared (it is admittedly generous to call pouring soy milk on flakes "preparation") to be moving with the activity of ants, that any package I opened, or food I hoped would remain undisturbed, should be placed in the refrigerator quickly; it seemed sound advice.  Alas, the ants in my apartment are a little more rough-and-tumble than those in the other apartments (they did, after all, scale five stories of linoleum).  Today I saw ants in my refrigerator.  There weren't many, and, regrettably, they weren't wearing the delightful little ant-parkas that would have made their trespass quasi-acceptable.

It goes without saying, ladies and gentlemen, that war in 501 has begun anew.

A taxi

I sit here, tired after a day of teaching, enjoying peanut butter, a delicacy I did not fully appreciate it until, having convinced myself that I would have to go a year sans consumption, only to stumble across it in the Big C supermarket near a talking cereal box (it had a motion detecting sound chip in it, I think; it may have been possessed, though) while looking for items both non-peanut butter and non-talking cereal box related.  Regardless, I found time to sit and relax and rather than having my idle hands be the devil's workshop in some other facet, decided to type away like a little secretary (in action only; certainly not in mannerisms or disposition).  That being squared away and not at all further muddled, I thought I should share the story of a taxi ride I took to my apartment from the Sizzler (yes, they have Sizzler in Thailand; I too was surprised).

Have you ever been in traffic, where no one is moving, yet you hear a persistent, arbitrary honking of a horn?  If you answered yes to that question (and I am assuming you did), then you have experienced only a little bit of what it is like to be in Bangkok.  In the "Venice of the East," (Bangkok, in case that was not clear by my location or the super-exact sobriquet; other cities enjoying the title of "Venice of the East," either officially or not?  Barisal City, Bangladesh; Lijiang City, China; Nan Madol, FSM; Osaka, Japan; Basra, Iraq; at least fourteen other cities.  The nickname is so popular that Bangkok is not even the only city in Thailand to have earned the tag.  I have digressed severely.) traffic is nearly a national pastime, and nearly every moment of the day is a lousy time to have to go anywhere by car.  That being said, I always found myself wondering, as I sat in the back of the bus or walked along the street, who exactly is honking?  The honking certainly accomplishes nothing and really a testament to Bangkok's ability to extend pollution beyond its normal three-pronged application (air, water and land) to the coveted area of noise pollution.  However, on this ride I gained valuable insight into who was doing all the honking in traffic.  It was this guy:  our taxi driver.

As I entered the taxi, sitting in the front seat, as seems to be my inherent right, given the landscape of other people in the city tends to be between two and six inches shorter than I.  Usually the front seat is a treat:  I get leg room, a more direct flow of air conditioning, an airbag (if I'm lucky) and often the only seatbelt not used by the driver.  On this occasion, however, I discovered the leg room to be, shall we say, less than ample.  It was in fact squalid.  The fact that the mechanism which is supposed to allow for the adjustment of the seat was in pieces (or had at one point been; I'm not sure the term applies when there are clearly elements missing) resulted in my sitting side saddle like a Georgia Duffy (look her up, if you want; I know nothing about her save that she was a cowgirl who rode side saddle; again I compare myself to her in this action only) in a hot-pink toyota.  To an outsider, it would be possible to mistakenly say this is not so bad, as I was in fact closer to the air conditioning, a seeming benefit when the weather in Bangkok ranges from about 75 to 95 degrees year round.  However, one thing quickly learned about taxis in Bangkok is that drivers like to keep their whips frosty.  Having learned this, one generally tries to avoid being too close to the vents for the concerns of catching a chill or possible frostbite.

So, as I found my face no more than ten inches away from the dashboard, the surface of which was already beginning to bruise my knees, shins and, strangely enough, the tops of my feet, I decided I should look around.  I made special note of the driver's identification card, posted in the front left (passenger side) of every taxi.  Well, I thought, I'm out of luck if I have to report this dude to the authorities, as all his information is in Thai.  However, he looked like a nice guy in the picture.  He looked to be in his early forties, kind of a rotund Thai with a light goatee and the hint of a twinkle in his eye.  Aaah, I thought.  There shall be nothing to report to authorities following this exchange of services for money.  Smiling, I looked over to my right, at the man driving the cab.

Shock and horror, but there was literally no way the gentleman driving the taxi was the individual in the photo.  A double-take confirmed my suspicions; the driver, though probably about the same age, was a good 70 pounds underweight and had a face in no way resembling the registered operator of the vehicle.  His face was something of interest, in fact, as he bore three distinct areas on his face which had clearly been stitched back together just hours before.  I wasn't altogether unsure a bookie's goons hadn't worked this dude's face over in a back alley.  Also, he kept honking.  When somebody was there, when nobody was there, he indiscriminately pressed the horn.  Several minutes into the ride, something imperceivable to all of us riding in the car set him about a mile over the edge.  It made no sense; we were on a straight, empty road (a rarity in Bangkok, but also something that caused a sincere amount of discomfort for me; at this point, I hadn't ruled out the chance that our driver was planning on robbing us while still having the fresh wounds given to him by either someone he had robbed or someone for whom had hadn't robbed enough; it reminded me of a conversation I had with friends at school last spring, when we discussed what we would do in a confined space [e.g., an automobile] with someone trying to kill us; I had my hand on the door release), when all of a sudden our friend began to curse violently under his breath much in the way an insane person does before he takes lives (I had seen such behavior once before, entering a subway station in Glasgow, Scotland, where an inebriated, deranged gent was shuffling along with a knife muttering curses and threats below his breath in a thick Glasgow accent), an act that caused me to be somewhat afraid, but more perplexed than anything else.  What exactly had set this dude off?

Now he was cursing in Thai, and quietly, yet forcefully, in a way that is universally understood to mean, "I'm angry about something, and somebody will without question pay for my anger."  As we finally pulled up to the apartment complex, I opened the door as quickly, yet as gently as possible while my friend lobbed him an approximate amount of money, slightly over the metered price, yet neither expecting nor hoping for change, exact or otherwise.  I breathed a sigh of relief that, whatever had made him so angry, he had simply gone on his way in his misappropriated taxi with his frigid air conditioning, his gaunt, freshly sutured face and his inarticulate, bizarrely leveled threats.  As he pulled away from the street and out of view, he gave us what seemed like a strangely humored parting gift.  He honked.  I couldn't help but smile . . . and then regret that he had seen where I live.

For a few pictures more . . .

Yesterday I went to King's Park in Bangkok with my fellow teachers Cherry and Maud.  The day was overcast and kind of lousy, and it was mid-morning, so we essentially had the park all to ourselves.  Here are some of the pictures that were half-decent (a term which may actually be too generous in some cases).

Outdoor gym in King's Park.

Rocks in front of pond.

Strange monument to a strange paddle/pontoon boat.

One of the many bridges in King's Park.

Monument and building.

I like to climb monuments.

Told you.

Another perspective.  This is what life looks like as a cobblestone with limited depth perception.

HDR image of a flower in front of two bridges.  Don't you wish these captions were actually informative?

Two bridges behind a flower.  Still not informative.

Building visible from anywhere in King's Park.

My fellow teachers, Maud (left) and Cherry.

Close photograph of a Buddha who seems to say, "Shhh . . . ut up."

HDR image of a Buddha, still a little angry that you're talking in his garden.  Interestingly, the Buddhas in Thailand are not fat and jolly like the Buddhas in American Chinese restaurants.

Buds in front of a cool house in a pond.

HDR image of cool house in a pond.

Flower growing in a pond.  Can you imagine that, just growing in a pond?

HDR image of an average Thai bicycle.

Those were the images I captured during my excursion to King's Park on Friday.  I hope you enjoyed them.

A note to my fellow missionaries

Being a student missionary is new to me.  Thus, I have faced a number of new challenges.  I don't pretend to know how to solve most of them, but here is something I found today:

I am tired.  Teaching is a difficult thing to do.  Let me explain that:  sometimes teaching feels like the easiest, most natural thing.  Sometimes the lessons flow freely and every student grasps exactly what you are trying to say.  But the rest of the time it is a struggle, especially for me, a person to whom patience has not always come easily.  I am happy to say that my capacity for patience has increased exponentially, mostly by the grace of God (and much to my students unwitting pleasure).  But as I said, today I am tired. I taught for six hours, three in the morning at a nearby school and three in the afternoon at SDA Language School.  Granted, six hours is not a long work day at all; regardless, I woke up at seven thirty and was back to my apartment for the evening by seven thirty.  And I was tired.  To be truthful, I wanted nothing more than to call home both to my family and my friends and enjoy a combination of talking to them and falling asleep.

Calling home was out of the question, as I have solemnly sworn to myself that I would not contact home for the first month of my trip (ironically acknowledged in this post).  So instead I channeled my tiredness and somewhat down feeling into other areas.  Here's how I dealt with my fatigue; hopefully this helps other student missionaries.

When I feel stressed or tired, I try to do three things:  first, I read my Bible and talk to God about it.  It helps put things in perspective.

Second, I listened to my favorite music.  Nothing in particular, I just cruised my iTunes and found songs that make me feel good.

Third, I exercised.  For me, few things take away stress like exercise.  I brought P90X with me on my computer, and although I tend to not follow the workouts exactly, any sort of physical activity tends to lift my spirits.  I would go for a run, but it's 9:30 at night and still 84 degrees.  So I exercise in my room.

After doing all three of these things, I am still tired, but I don't feel so decimated.  I doubt this will help anyone, but I hope that it does.  If you have any ideas for SMs, please comment.

By the way, if you need a verse to read while you are in your mission field (whether it be in Thailand, Micronesia or your very own home town), may I suggest Isaiah 6:8 - "Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send?  And who will go for us?'  And I said, 'Here I am.  Send me!'"

That helps remind me what I'm truly doing when it feels like I'm just teaching Thai and Korean kids how to pronounce the word "broom."

What is it?

What is it?  These words have become familiar in Thailand, especially in the realm of food.  Indulge me, if you will, to tell you a frosty tale of intrigue and uncertainty in the far away kingdom of Thailand.

What is it?  I ask myself.  I stare at the small, square table in my apartment, or, more appropriately, at the small, Styrofoam box sitting there.  The box, like most of the Styrofoam variety, is white.  This one has a peculiar hole in one corner, like someone sanded the edge until a smooth gradient of a gash was created.  The box was cold, as it had been in a refrigerator for the last two days, and smelled delicious, but the type of delicious where one could not discern any one ingredient.  I thought back to when I first acquired the foam treasure chest, a simpler time . . .

I had just finished eating with my friend Cherry at a restaurant whose name I can neither pronounce nor remember.  We had stopped there on our way back to our apartment building from Big C, the local supermarket.  My daily decreasing funds due to frivolous living in a very small way (Thailand is extremely cheap, but you soon realize, after a certain matter of time, that you have to stop converting the costs to dollars and start living in baht; around the time I had this change of mind, I came to the conclusion that I did not have nearly as much money on the ready as I would have liked) and I decided that instead of eating out every day for lunch and dinner, I had better buy myself from food from the supermarket to save money and sustain life.  So, dinner was finished and Cherry was showing me some pictures on her cell phone of some of the previous SMs to Thailand.  The restaurant, a loud, bustling place, moved around us as we waited for the bill and looked at pictures.  All of a sudden, I looked to my right and there sat a bag on our table.

To whom did the bag belong?  We had eaten all of the food we had ordered, so that ruled us out.  However, the bag of food was dropped off with such pink panther slyness that we never saw the individual who had set it on our table.  My questions soon moved from the area of whom to the region of what.  What was in the bag?  I had to take a look.  I opened the bag up, looked in the Styrofoam box (which didn't have a hole at this point) and was struck by a wave of warm delicious aromas.  There were wide white noodles and cooked chicken and bright cabbage . . . on all accounts not a meal to be trifled with; and yet there it sat, on our table, unordered but not necessarily unwanted.  Again I shot a look around the restaurant, trying to stop the Robin Hood who was aware of my baht predicament and had decided to remedy the problem with an anonymous gift of food from the rich, for this surely was rich person food.

The check came and many waiters and waitresses passed, but nobody took away the bag.  Perhaps they had forgotten about it, perhaps they had not realized they had made the mistake in the first place; perhaps I was subconsciously putting out a very rough, "you'd better not take this bag away from me" aura; we will likely never know.  What we do know is that I left the restaurant holding one more bag that night, and when I returned to my apartment, it went in my refrigerator, where it lied in wait, until lunch time today . . .

I had forgotten completely about the mystery dish.  I was scouring my apartment for something to eat that didn't fall into my self-imposed soup diet (called into action as a result of my lack of funds) when I saw, in the back of my fridge, the bag.  I placed it on the table and stared at it.  What is it?  And where the heck did that hole come from?  At first I thought, naturally, that some sort of a mouse with a belt sander was living in my refrigerator, but I quickly tossed that idea out; how ridiculous, the idea that mouse would operate a belt sander in a refrigerator when it is obvious that it would need safety glasses and safety glasses of that size are, at this stage in history, simply out of the question.  So I ignored the hole and looked into the box.  I was reminded of why I had so eagerly taken this clerical cuisine error; it still smelled delicious.  So I borrowed a refrigerator from the teacher across the hall (my "kitchen" did not come equipped with one) and heated the dish.  I tore into it, the exact way in which you would expect someone who has not eaten solid food in two and a half days to do.  It was delicious, of course, but the more I ate, the more the question gnawed at me:  what is it?

To be honest, I never found out.  But I'm pretty sure there was some squid or octopus in it.  All I know is that the chewy, fish-tasting chunks had some pretty heavy-duty suckers on them.  But the need to eat real food after that much soup does strange things to a person.

Lost, Per Usual

It's almost 1 pm here in Bangkok.  For the first time since I've been here, the air feels cool and fresh, although the weather sites would somehow disagree with me.  One site says "82° F, feels like 88° F."  Let me tell you, however, that there is a certain cool stillness to today that weather.com just can't express.

Today I attended Thai church to watch a concert put on by some of the kids I teach in the English Program at Ekamai Adventist School.  They played ukuleles and sang songs about heroes from the Bible.  It was really cool seeing the kids so excited about the songs and really getting into it.  Then I went to potluck and met some Thai people to eat with.  Potlucks in Thailand tend to be different from potlucks in the United States, mostly because the food here, ALL the food, is amazing.  There is never the "Obligation Casserole," the fare you feel compelled to eat because of the individual who cooked it, and which is never judged fairly on its merits or digestibility.  Instead, every bit of food here is restaurant-quality and delicious.  I sat with two girls who instructed me on the proper assembly of one of the curry dishes; I figured if they are willing to tell me how to put my food together, I'm sure they will be interesting company.

I had planned yesterday morning to write about how familiar I had become with Bangkok.  I wanted to talk about how I could hail a cab or tuk-tuk with ease, how I could avoid flooded parts in a street at a near-professional level.  However, the world, as it is often wont to do, decided that Friday, September 9, 2011, was as good a day as any to mix up my belief in my self.  Here's a short synopsis about how my day went:

11:00 am - decide to go to Khaosan Road in eastern Bangkok.  It has been said that "all roads lead to Khaosan," and that may be true, but only if you travel in the correct direction on any given road . . .

Noon 10 - leave apartment and board tuk-tuk to Phra Kanong, the BTS stop nearest me and where I would board either the #2 or the #511 bus to Democracy Monument, the closest landmark stop by Khaosan.

Noon 30 - arrive at Phra Kanong, cross street to board bus.

Noon 40 - board bus #2.  Smile in delight that, for some reason, no fare is charged to ride.  At this point, I was unaware that I was going in exactly the wrong direction.

Bus #2:  View from a bus seat.

1:30 pm - everyone else gets off bus, so I join them.  Why not, right?  I begin walking in a manner that could only be described as aimlessly.  I ask a friendly group of motorcyclists for help and they instruct me to go to the bus.  Thinking I have only missed my stop by one or two, I do as they say.

Friendly motorcycle taxi drivers.

1:40 pm - get on #511 bus headed in correct direction.  Go two stops then get off.

2:10 pm - continue my aimless jaunt around the wrong side of Bangkok.  End up at a security guard station where I am instructed to wait (in Thai) until a motorcycle taxi picks me up.  I tell him Khaosan Rd, thinking it is a couple minutes away.  He doesn't seem to understand my request, but begins driving anyway.  Drives for twenty minutes, when I realize he's been talking on his cell phone for the past ten.  Pulls over to side of the road and hands phone to me.

2:30 pm - begin a fruitless conversation with a woman on a cell phone who speaks very little English and seems to be surprisingly ignorant of Khaosan.  I get slightly irritated as she keeps saying, "Again!"  I hand phone back to driver, he hands phone back to me.  Conversation continues.  I hand phone back to driver, he hands phone back to me.  Conversation continues.  I hand phone back to driver.  He hangs up, then says, "BTS."  "Sure, whatever."

2:55 pm - driver drops me off at BTS station.  I walk in, irritated that all this is happening.  Literally the moment I glance at a map I realize that it has taken me over two and a half miles to get approximately an hour further away from my intended destination than the point from which I began.  I hope silently that nobody can tell I am a moron from just looking at me and board a BTS train towards National Stadium.

3:30 pm - get out of BTS station at National Stadium and watch a marching band competition . . . Imagine the movie "Drumline" with just Asian people.  So yeah, it was pretty amazing.  I walk around looking for a taxi to take me to Khaosan, but nobody is willing to go on the meter.  They all want a flat rate.  For your information, if a taxi driver refuses to go on the meter, he is dishonest.  So, they don't get my business.  I settle on a motorcycle taxi that I barter down to a price that is less than half the rate of the other taxis.

The view from a motorcycle taxi.

4:00 pm - arrive at Khaosan.  Relief pours through my body as I pay the driver and thank him for helping me out.  I walk around for a while, then prepare to return home.  On my way out of the street, a man in a turban approaches me, holds out his hand and says, "You are very lucky man."  Well, that piques my interest, so I shake his hand but tell him I have to go.  He begins asking me if he has done something to offend me, I say no but tell him I don't want to spend money.  He offers a free test of his services, which apparently are in the realm of fortune telling, and says if I am impressed then I can pay him for more.  I don't want to join him, especially down the alley into which he drags me, but I think to myself that perhaps by following him I can relieve some of the American-Arab tensions I apparently let arise when he thought I was angry with him.  He does some bogus trick in which he writes, "7," "HGR" and "no" on a piece of paper.  This kind of trick is easily manipulated and I am unimpressed.  He wants me to pay for more, but I decline and wish him a wonderful rest of the day.  I head to the street to find my bus home. 

5:00 pm - not wanting to make the same mistake I made the first time, I ask multiple people for help.  Most of them even tell me the same thing.  Also, I pace fruitlessly up and down a street, thinking that by simply walking back and forth the solution to my uncertainty will become clear.  It does not.

6:00 pm - board the #2 bus to . . . ?  I hope silently that it is Phra Kanong, but I have not assurance that this is the case.  My thoughts travel from the realm of "this is right," to "this is wrong," to "oh well, it will work out," to "I will probably never see my home again and might die on the streets tonight."  After long periods of not seeing anything recognizable, I identify a BTS stop I know.  I consider disembarking and getting on the BTS, but I am aware that I have not been charged a fare on this bus.  At first, I consider that a bad thing, as the first bus I took that day was headed in the wrong direction and also charged no fare.  Finally, I arrive at Phra Kanong.

7:30 pm - walk to a tuk-tuk to take me back to my street.  It is very easy in Bangkok to get turned around and confused, but I am certain it is the correct one.  The rain begins to fall lightly.

7:45 pm - it's the wrong one!  I am confused but know I am heading in the wrong direction.  I press the stop button to get off as the tuk-tuk turns down a road.  As soon as I climb out of the tuk-tuk and pay, I realize . . .

7:46 pm - it was the right one!  Nuts, now I have gotten off twenty blocks short of my apartment and I'm not about to pay for another tuk-tuk.  Oh well, I can walk.  It is just sprinkling rain, after all.  A walk won't kill me.

7:47 pm - the heavens begin to throw down, monsoon-style.  I walk for a few short blocks before I find shelter and pull out my rain jacket (which I have begun carrying with me; one of my better decisions).  I tromp through huge raindrops and huger puddles past people huddled in doorways and under umbrellas.

8:15 pm - arrive at my apartment, thankful for a waterproof coat and food in my apartment.

Thus was my adventure in which I remembered that I don't know everything.  It's good to be reminded of that every once in a while.  As long as it's not too often . . . 

To Speak Thai

A bizarre commercial is the reason I want to learn to speak Thai. Sure, a working knowledge of Thai would make travel easier; it would be easier to get a good deal in a market or order what I want to eat (for that matter, it would also help in figuring out just exactly what the heck I am eating from some of the places); also, being able to communicate with people on the street would probably be enlightening. But if I'm being honest, the thing that gave me the strongest motivation to learn Thai was a commercial I saw on the BTS, the sky train in Bangkok. Allow me to play the scene of the commercial:

A fighter jet blazes through the sky, transforms into some odd shape, then back into a jet. This action is repeated once more. Then, on the final transformation, the fighter jet morphs into . . . you guessed it . . . a can of nuts! What??

Does that make any sense? Now, I understand the appeal of a transforming machine from the advertiser's perspective. The movie franchise, Transformers, and the predating cartoon series, have been hugely successful, especially recently. So, of course a good way to advertise your product is to have something transform into something else. I can see this working with automobiles, furniture, televisions and the like, but I never foresaw the application of such a strategy into the world of packaged kernels. During the commercial, images of Thai words were shooting across the screen and someone was speaking in Thai, so I have to imagine that some sort of explanation was given as to why a transforming armed aircraft would plausibly become a can of nuts. Such a weapon is not likely to have been developed by a country that has an understanding of how a war works or what one needs in the event of an armed conflict. I also wonder how many incredibly guileless spies wandered innocently into a Thai supermarket in hopes of capturing a can of nuts which turns into a fighter jet for their home country. I like to think that somewhere there is an former spy who has way too many cans of nuts because he thought he could lead his country to a heroic invasion of a neighboring country.

Or maybe I'm the only one who thinks it is weird to have a jet turn into a can of macadamias. Regardless, I hope to one day get on the BTS and follow along with that commercial and be able to understand it. "Ah, so these nuts have all the essential nutrients to keep your body finely tuned, much like a fighting plane. Now it makes sense." Until then, I am keeping my eyes open for these nuts, because I would love to have a fighter jet. And if that doesn't work out, at least I will be able to enjoy some almonds.

The Rain

This post again breaks my silence, but it has been sitting in my computer for almost a week and if I wait any longer to post it, it will be entirely irrelevant. This is from my first full day in Thailand.

August 26, 2011
Bangkok, Thailand

Today has so far been interesting. Sleep came and lasted not long enough, but when I awoke I was somehow ready for the day despite having only slept for several hours. I lounged about my new home, looking outside at the morning unfolding from my perch on the fifth floor. The view faces north and contains little to look at; a few skyscrapers, a number of apartments and the compound in which the school I will be teaching is located. A knock on my door took me to the hallway, where two women: one a vigorous, bubbly American with a sheen of sweat and a short, cheerful Thai. They asked me how I had settled in and gave me a breakfast of some sort of sliced fruit before bidding me good day. A couple of hours later, they returned; my apartment phone, having failed at its one and only responsibility, was checked by the Thai lady, Pi Oi (I’m guessing on spelling here). The two ladies then invited me to lunch, an offer I immediately accepted. We walked for a couple minutes before arriving at stop number one, a street vendor offering fruit smoothies. We each got one. Mine was a coconut-flavored concoction and cost a mere 25 baht (about $0.83). Our next stop was a restaurant with traditional Thai fare. The food was excellent and spicy and I was told about my new home. The American, whose name was Carla, I believe, told me about Ubon, where she was stationed. My two hostesses explained the food and the responsibilities and described their experiences thus far. Carla left us for Ubon and Pi Oi and I boarded a tuk-tuk to the local Jusco, a grocery and drug store located just down the street from my apartment. I purchased some necessary items there and then caught another tuk-tuk back to my apartment. We dropped off my newly acquired items in my room and then walked to the school, where I sent an email to my parents, letting them know I was staying in Bangkok and that I was safe, and then resisted an urge to send off about a hundred other emails. I sat for a while in the cool office and leafed through a couple of books about how to speak Thai while the heavens absolutely opened up outside. Walking back to my apartment in the rain, using a borrowed pink umbrella, which I’m sure a pre-adolescent girl had misplaced, I splashed through ankle deep water, glad that I had worn flip-flops and not shoes I was trying to keep presentable. The rainy season has just begun, but will end in November, or so I’ve been told. Until then, a couple of hour’s worth of rain a day, on top of the already ludicrously high humidity levels. It’s worth it though. I really like it here. I am not in the center of Bangkok by any stretch of the imagination, and I don’t know when I will go to the real Bangkok, but I like where I am right now. I keep smiling for no other reason than I am happy. The food is cheap, the weather is tolerable and I just discovered I have air conditioning in my apartment! God is good, and, so far, so is Thailand.