bass

We moved to this quiet jungle village for the "quiet jungle" part of it, and usually that's exactly what we get. But we've got this neighbor. And he's got this sound system.

I'm not usually bothered by loud music, even when it's really, really shitty music. In Zafra, we lived right next to the plaza, where week-long festivals pumped out the same Shakira songs hundreds of time. In college, I shared a wall with a bar that regularly featured drum-heavy hipster bands. No big deal.

This is something entirely different. This is madness.

The guy has a pickup that looks like a half-finished Pimp My Ride project, and instead of putting the truck bed to any socially acceptable purpose, he's decked it out with speakers, with the volume eternally cranked up to 11. His small but diverse collection of scratched cds ranges from the Black Eyed Peas to Spanish house to sappy Thai pop ballads. When he gets going, my house shakes. The paintings on the wall rattle and the floor vibrates beneath my feet. I can't listen to my own music or watch TV. Ear plugs are futile. I once tried just putting my head under a pillow, but I could hear Fergie through the mattress.

The other neighbors, all much older than us, are even more distraught at the situation that Levi and I are. But Thais are not confrontational people. They shy away from any negative interaction, and when forced to have one, they'll smile the whole way through. Our landlords, a Thai woman and her Kiwi husband, are the only ones who have had the courage to go tell this guy to shut the hell up.

But this started four years ago, they say, and nothing will stop him.

The Kiwi has gone to the police various times. He's talked to the village leader, and to the leader of the next village over.

But apparently there's no such thing as a noise violation here, at least not outside of the city. The police can't fine him or confiscate his system or penalize him in any way.

And the village leaders are his family. Most of the village is, actually, except us and our landlords and their family, the unfortunate few who live near enough to suffer bass-induced headaches. His family won't do anything, apparently as convinced as he is of his fundamental right to deafen us all, and in fact ceased to be friendly with our landlords' family a couple years ago, when the cops were called in to give the asshole a stern (and fruitless) talking to.

Our Thai landlord, a very sweet woman, told us all this with apologies in her eyes; there's nothing to be done, she said.

So we just have to deal.

These are the moments when I find myself clashing against the culture. This would not be an issue in America. This guy would have been fined too many times for his behavior to be economically feasible. Even in Spain, the cops would have shut him down years ago. But here, the channels have been exhausted. The cops are useless, and two families couldn't talk it out, so it's over. I'll just have to spend the next seven months listening to stuttering drum machines and fantasizing about taking a baseball bat to that truck.

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.

railay

Monday was Constitution Day, so a bunch of us took the three-day weekend to go to Railay, a beautiful bay with a touristy beachfront on the western side of the peninsula. We sat on the beach, went on a snorkling trip, saw fire dancers and Thai boxing, and had a great time. Here's some pics.

Alicia on the boat to our snorkel spot. We saw a two-foot sea snake and huge schools of colorful fish.

At one of the islands our snorkel tour guide took us to. This boat, and many others like it, was fitted with a full kitchen setup and sold a pretty extensive menu, drink and appetizers as well.

Why buy torches when all these empty beer cans are just lying around? This was the method one beach bar used to light a path. There were a dozen or so. Leo is a typical Thai beer, usually one of the cheapest a shop will have. It takes something like Bud Light, only pissier.

At Railay Bay. One of the more crowded beaches I've been to here, but still no rival to the hoards of southern Spain.

Catherine on the boat to the beach. It's located on a rocky peninsula and can only be reached by boat. Like many places in Thailand, these boats are longtails, wooden canoe-liked affairs with car motors rigged onto them.

Colorful riverboats on the way out to the sea.

Levi relaxing at the restaurant in the bungalow complex we stayed in. The design is typically Thai: colorful, wooden, with a charmingly makeshift Bohemian feel. Instead of chairs, many of the tables have floor cushions.

idiomas

I've studied Spanish and Portuguese for years and am reasonably adept at languages; I'm good at mimicking sounds and tones and have a decent memory for vocab. Thai is, of course, a far more complicated animal. I've picked up a little through osmosis, but I'm ashamed to say that I haven't put that much effort into learning it. It's such a daunting task that undertaking it for the sake of a one-year stint seemed silly to me, and laziness did the rest.

But I have enough for pleasantries, at least the initial ones. I can tell the cashier I don't want a bag and that I don't have a member card, and I can give her the correct amount when she tells me the total. These feel like huge accomplishments and I'm always rather proud of myself.

At this point, said cashier is super excited because it's rare that she meets a foreigner who speaks Thai. She compliments me on my skills (I know that one) then proceeds to say...some other stuff. She seems to be asking a question now...oh god, smile and nod...nope, appears not to have been a yes/no question...search purse for exact change...not what she wanted...abandon ship!

"I dont understand," I say, a phrase I learned within a day of arrival. I'm defeated. She's laughing hysterically. She says nevermind, tells me I have pretty hair, and gives me my change.

I scurry.

the job

I work at a gigantic elementary school. On most days I teach three classes, each with over fifty second-graders. I see these same kids for an hour every day, so I've gotten to know them pretty well. They are amazing.

 I walk into the classroom and one designated kid, usually of the suck-up variety, shouts "Stand up, please!" They all rise, their hands clasped in the prayer-like gesture (call a wai) used to show respect. "Good morning, teachah," they chant, their Thai tongues unable to handle that final 'R'. I say good morning and ask them to sit down, to which they respond, "Thank you, teachah." The second they're seated, the politeness drains out of them and they return to their noisy, misbehaved ways.

 Months ago, I divided each class into teams. These teams earn points by being reasonably good, and the reward for a certain number of points is a homework-free day. They like the incentive, but mostly they just want to honor of bestowing a name on their team for the day. They wrestle each other's arms down and squeal "teeeeaachaaahh,"  hoping to catch my attention. The kids I call on proudly shout "Team Angry Birds," "Team Amazing Spiderman," or, in the last few weeks, "Team Gangnam Style." One tech-savvy class once gave me "Team iPad," "Team iPod," and "Team iPhone." My kiss-ass class comes up with things like "Team Teacher Savi is Beautiful" and "Team America is Great." They know how to get extra points out of me. The same class once realized that I'd give out points for candy (I have limited integrity when it comes to points) and I spent two glorious weeks being showered in sweets and, once, an entire cake.
 

Maintaining peace in the face of violence

I start class with a game that gets them moving around, usually something that has them racing to the board to write vocab words. It's amazing how intensely interested they suddenly are when I throw in competition. Some kids get positively spastic. When we study animals, I have a few class clowns come up and act like gorillas or dinosaurs (T-rex arms are a personal favorite of mine). When we're doing adjectives, they come up and puff out their tummies for "fat" or have jumping contests for "tall." One very entertaining week on professions, I had the rowdiest boys posed as ballerinas and the daintiest girls aiming fingerguns as cops. At the end of class, I assign them homework and listen to their argument against homework. Alright, it's less an argument and more "teaaccchhahh noooo homework!" In the end they laugh and do it anyway.

When I see them around the school, they run up for high-fives and hugs. I'll occasionally see one at a store or restaurant and they freak out, waving and shouting "HELLOO TEACHAH!" until their parents hiss at them to show proper respect with a wai. They're still so small that seeing a teacher outside school is exciting enough to make them forget their manners.

Somedays they give me headaches, aggravate me with their inability to conjugate a verb properly despite weeks of practice, and I swear if I hear one more of them singing "Gangnam Style" I might lose it, but they are just awesome. I mean, look.

Pictured: pure evil

bad

I teach for two hours a day at Super English, an after-school academy. My students are three to six years old, but many of them have a higher level of English than the second-graders I teach in the morning. In my first class, I have the smartest of all of my students, a tiny five-year-old girl named Gun who is every bit as girly and headstrong as I was when I was a kid. She loves showing off her absurdly floofy dresses and raises her hand to answer every question. She's fantastic.

That class is now all girls, but I used to have a few boys, the most memorable of whom is Bamboo, a chubby five-year-old who is good at English but terrible at behaving himself. He's a fat little cannonball, just runs through life destroying everything in his path. Gun has no tolerance for his nonsense; she's always rolling her eyes at him, or shaking her head at me and saying, "Teacher, Bamboo is bad."

There's one central rule in my class: no speaking Thai. If they're not speaking Thai, they're not distracted, and generally listen and behave better. I'm strict on this rule.

So one day the kids are doing a worksheet. I turn my back for a moment and hear a smack. I spin around and Bamboo is hovered over Gun's desk, her Cinderella pencil case is in his porky fist, and her arm is raised. She quickly returns it to her lap and looks guiltily at me.

Bamboo launches into a wailing narrative in Thai, acting out what happened, clearly trying to tell me that Gun retaliated physically against his theivery.

Gun looks at him, looks at me, and waits. When Bamboo stops, waiting for me to punish his assailant, Gun purses her lips and looks me directly in the eye and says, "Teacher, Bamboo is speaking Thai."

No punishments were dealt that day.