libros

I'm teaching prepositions to my second graders, making it visual by stacking kids on top of one another, balancing notebooks on their heads and having them stand on, next to, behind, in front of chairs. I make a couple kids squeeze themselves under a desk and have one hold a chair on his head. I swear this is educational.

I pull one kid's desk out of his row and into the front of the class. I tell him to stand on it. He breaks into a huge, gap-toothed grin when he realizes what I'm telling him to do, but before he jumps up on it, he presses his hands together in front of his lips and bows to the desk, the wai gesture that Thais use to show respect.

As I continue bringing up groups of kids to stand in various silly formations with each other, furniture, and their school supplies, I notice that every kid wais the desk before standing on it. I'm confused; I've only seen this gesture used to show respect to people, temples, and other things that you would naturally assume garner respect. Not pieces of furniture.

So after class, I ask my Thai assistant teacher about it. She tells me it isn't about the desk, but what's inside of the desk.

Education is highly valued in Thailand. Teachers are very well respected; in Surat, if you're being treated with the rudeness usually reserved for backpackers, dropping an "I'm a teacher" in Thai will turn things around. This respect carries over to books; as the tools of education, they are treated with care and reverence.

So my students, before putting their feet (the most unholy part of the body) on the desk, were showing respect for the books.

anuban

Once a week I teach Anuban 1, which would be, in the American education system, pre-pre-kindergarten. They're three years old. But here (and in Spain, and as I understand, in much of the world) at three years old you're off to school. At Thida, they even put you in a tiny uniform. Since you can't yet handle the whole tucked-in thing, your shirt is actually attached by a series of buttons to your skirt/shorts, but apart from that and your extremely small stature, you look just like the big kids.

They're not at the point where you can do a full, 55-minute lesson, complete with bookwork and writing, so it's just a half hour of "conversation." Sarcasm quotes because, let's be honest, these little guys don't even really speak Thai yet. So on my first day with them, I wanted to keep it simple. I walk in and their teacher has them, all 45 of them, seated on the floor in neat little columns. They all scream "HELLO" and wave frantically as I walk in and take a seat on the miniature chair at the front of the room.

We practice "My name is," which they can sort of do. "My name is Teacher Savannah," I say. A couple brave ones shout "SAWANNAH," but the rest are silent, their big black eyes rolling in their heads as they take in this strange new pale addition to their surroundings. I call up the first one. She slowly stands and, prompted by her friends, timidly approaches me. They've given her the smallest possible uniform, but the short-sleeved shirt still covers her elbows and her skirt brushes her toes. She's tugged her pigtails into lopsided tangles and one of her feet is bare. "What's your name?" I ask. She's nervous, looking around at her enthralled peers for assistance. It's too much pressure to say it aloud, so she leans in and whispers, "My name is Aung-ing." I offer her a congratulatory high five, which she accepts with enthusiasm before scurrying back to her seat, where her friend returns her missing sock.

Next up is Tang Mo, who is also in my after-school class every day and thus suffers no shyness in my presence, although she's not the reserved type anyway. Her name, directly translated, means 'watermelon.' This is a food-focused culture, and fruity names are fairly common, but sometimes a likeness can turn a cute name into adorable comedy. Tang Mo is a fat little watermelon, with round cheeks and a chubby belly and limbs of rather melon-like proportions. Before I can even get the question out, she shouts "Teechah! My ay it Tang Mo," and demands her well-earned high five. I tickle her instead, and she collapses to the floor in giggling spasms. When I stop, she's suddenly very serious, holding her hand resolutely a few inches from my face until I consent to high-five it.

I go through the entire class, one by one, coaxing their names out of them, cheating occasionally with a whispered word in Thai, hoping it will ease their nerves. One kid has his finger buried up to the knuckle in his nostril for the duration of our interation. One girl grabs my hand and examines my nail polish closely for several moments before declaring it pink. One boy bursts into tears.

Twenty-five minutes in, we stand up for a song. Thai kids are universally familiar with "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes," for some reason, so I just roll with it. But the coordination required to touch different body parts in rapid succession proves too much for most of these little ones, and a good number simply collapse in the effort. Their friends pull them to their feet, rumpling their uniforms and mussing their carefully-braided hair. One tiny one goes to touch his head and applies a bit too much force, landing on his forehead with a SMACK. It's a bloodbath. I ask them to sit down to end the carnage, but they've lost their columns and don't know where to go, so they do the next logical thing they can think: start tackling one another to the floor in extremely slow-motion wrestling matches.

Half an hour's up, sorry teacher, your problem now. I wave goodbye and go to the class next door to do it all over again.

glitter

My school, like Thailand in general, likes to party. Every couple of months (at least), classes start being sporadically cancelled, or you'll show up and only half the kids will be there, usually a mostly male half. The poor little guys will tell you that their fortunate classmates don't have to come because they're dancing.

They're preparing for a celebration of some kind. The meaning is less important than the mode, which is always the same; take lots of little girls, doll them up Toddlers in Tiaras-style, and have them do an utterly Thai dance for a small gathering of the school's nuns, teachers, and a few parents. These shows are huge; the costumes alone must cost a fortune and take hours to put together, and the kids practice the choreography for weeks. Despite the intense effort it clearly entails, they appear to do it just for the kids and the photos; there is hardly ever any audience more than twenty people.

These photos are from the celebration of the 70th anniversary of the founding of the school, but they're pretty representative of Mother's Day, Father's Day, the River Spirit holiday and others.

First and second graders perform for the nuns

Coming offstage in a blur of pink and gold and fake eyelashes.

Some of the high school girls from the other campus getting ready in the teacher's room before the show.

Big silk scarves unfolded from their skirts in the finale, which came out all blurry on my sad little camera.

Some of my kids performing the dance their class prepared.

The whole elementary school performing the final number. It was cool to see from above, but I was one of maybe three people to go upstairs to check it out.

whirl

It took 54 hours, a bus, three planes, and one panicked double-back to the airport to recover forgotten luggage, but we got here. Surat Thani is still a bit of a mystery to me, as we have yet to acquire a bike and it's not a walkable place with its traffic and unmarked backstreets and occasional lack of sidewalks. We've been riding around in tuk-tuks, little trucks with benches in the back who will take you anywhere for about 50 cents, but whose route and travel time are ever uncertain. So it's been a strange week, spent half in transit and half on the attempts to pull together a life--learn the job, set up the house, figure out what food to ask for and where to buy the various objects always necessary after a move. All I know for certain is that the food is delicious and everyone smiles. Once we buy a motorbike I'll figure the rest out.

In the mornings I'm at Thidamaepra School, a shiny modern ring of a building that encircles 2000 children and a handful of nuns. I teach three sections of Intensive English Program second-graders, fifty-five to a class. This week I instructed them on demonstratives and body parts while their Thai teacher menaced the troublemakers with a ruler. They give us free food at lunchtime and when we walk through the building dozens of little hands surround us for high-fives and "Hello Teacher!" comes at us from all angles.

In the afternoons I'm at Super English, the school that hired us. Here I have two classes of ten kids, aged four to six. Since I'm alone with them and they don't understand a word I'm saying, keeping the situation under control has been a bit of a challenge. But they have fat cheeks and call me 'Teacher Sawee" so it's pretty hard to get irritated. After finishing classes, it's a short walk to a one-dollar dinner of curry or noodles.

It's all still a blur of spicy food and sleepiness; I don't think it's really hit me that I'm here. This weekend we're shopping for a bike and I'm gonna get this place figured out.

PS I'll keep this blog at its current address, despite the fact that I am no longer anywhere near Europe.