dishwashing

We don't have sink at our house. This generally proves to be less of a hassle than you might think. I brush my teeth in the shower or, on those days when the tank dries up, with a water bottle over the drain. We have a spigot in the bathroom for handwashing, and the trusty hose next to the toilet serves well for cleaning.

The only time this omission becomes particularly glaring is when it's time to do the dishes. We eat out most dinners and nearly all lunches, but breakfasts and the occasional carry-out meal usually create a pile of dishes at the end of the week. These dirties are stored outside, on a rotting wooden table furnished with two big plastic buckets, a drying rack, and a hose. The setup is covered in termites, ants, and the mosquitoes that breed in the water under the house. We do our best to rinse all the food out of the dishes and keep the table free of standing water, but the rain thwarts our efforts, and washing dishes is such an ordeal that there's no way we could do it daily. So the sticky stuff stays sticky, and the bugs go mad.

On Saturday mornings, I tackle this chore. The first step is to empty the buckets, with are undoubtedly full of rainwater and the resulting mosquito larvae. Lifting up the buckets usually reveals a termite smorgasbord; apparently weary of a wood-based diet, they've started working on the tough plastic, to an impressive degree of success. I rinse the little bastards away and get started on the ants, who, their feast on the crumbs under the table rudely interrupted by my assault with the hose, are now climbing angrily up my legs. I wash them off, often with some high-pitched squeals of which I'm not proud, and clean out the buckets. Both get filled with water, and to one I add soap. As I scrub and rinse, I'm doing battle with the swarms of mosquitoes; this "sink" is unfortunately located at the edge of the water, and they can't resist this rare bag of warm blood that has wandered into their realm. They're the bad ones, too, the nasty ones who fear no bug spray, so big you can clearly see the stripes on their backs and their horrifying needle-noses.

By the time I've gotten through the pile, I'm soaking wet, sweating, and covered in mosquito welts. A shower is in order. Sadly, the dishwashing process uses so much water that the tank is unlikely to contain any more, and I am often forced to sit in the house in filth until it is refilled by our landlord, the incoming tide, or the water fairy (it's unclear how the Thai water supply actually works). Thank god (vodka fairy?) for screwdrivers.

jungla

My first semester in Thailand, a brief and overwhelming maelstrom of spicy food, language barriers and runny-nosed seven-year-olds, has passed. The experienced has been mixed, the daily joy of the unsurpassed cuteness of a Thai elementary school tempered by a constant pollution cough and my inability to effectively coymmunicate or integrate, but finally, this dirty, weird little river city is growing on me.

After four months there, Levi and I opted to flee the dorm-style house our school provides. It's a fine place, newly renovated and well located, but with five new teachers moving in for the new semester, the appeal faded. So we moved to the lesser developed side of the river, a peaceful forest village called Ban Bai Mai.

The container

Our new house, recently vacated by two former teachers, is composed of two metal storage containers, each about eight by thirty feet and nine feet high. They've been welded together along their lengths, furnished with doors and windows, and wood floors, piped and wired, painted blue and stuck up on stilts over a creekb  inb a dense palm jungle. To the front we have a broad tiled porch, fruit and flowering trees bearing delicacies I've never seen and couldn't name, and our neighbors, a friendly Thai family with whom we share a gravel drive. To the back, only jungle; a thick ground cover of grass, vines, and pandan shrubs beneath banana trees with six-foot leaves and two-storey palms swaying on trunks no wider than my leg. In October the flood rains come to southern Thailand so there are fish and frogs under the house and every shade of green outside the window.

The view from our bedroom

Living room

So rather than try to wrestle pleasant travels out of so wet a season, we're spending our month of freedom in this gorgeous box. The mornings we devote to improvements, painting furniture, dusting, and scrubbing the metal walls clean of their accumulated dirt and mold, but the afternoons are luxurious stretches of movies (or in my case, admittedly terrible by nevertheless irresistible Spanish soaps), books, and watching the rain run off the banana leaves. The place is a respite from the chaos and grime of Surat, and with the addition of this much-needed hideout, I'm happy I came to Thailand.