US, US, baby

I had a bit of location identity crisis this past weekend…

Can you name that song??? I can’t. First one who can, definitely gets 10 points.

With a wardrobe now down one Missouri Football shirt, I was super duper excited to come across a “St. Louis Is my Hometown” T-shirt at the JJ Weekend Market here in Bangkok. It was perfect. (I mean, what could be better than buying an original Missouri-loving shirt in Thailand?)

Yep. Perfect. Albeit…surprising. With Hollister and Abercrombie & Fitch real and fake Ts all over the market, most shirts had animals prints or girl-power or beach-town themes. But not this little gem of a shirt.

Why make a St. Louis T? You ask. (Or at least I did) Turns out a young guy, Tui, has been designing original shirts under his Rockstar brand for the last year or so. And not only is he (shown below, left, with his brother) a shirt designer, but he’s also a former high school exchange student of small-town Missouri (Moberly, Missouri, population 13,992). Although he never made it to the STL, he knows what it’s about.

And he knows how to make T-shirts, too. I’ll definitely be wearing this one over the rest of my trip.*

*However when I get back, I may have to give it up to a truly St. Louisian…otherwise I’m sure I’ll be stopped on the street somewhere and asked that inevitable St. Louis greeting: “Where’d you go to high school?“

Ah, the beauty of English subtitles. Yesterday, I went to see the Thai romantic comedy, Sai Lub Jub Baan Lek (which kind of translates into The Bedside Detective).

As the movie got started, the audience was quickly introduced to the lead Jock and his friend Jack. Jack was the perfect sidekick. Funny but not a show-stealer. However, even though he wasn’t the star of the show, I couldn’t stop laughing at Jack’s characterization as a sensitive hip-hop wannabe who always wore American sports jerseys and thumped his chest. (Watching him, though, I’d say his costumes looked more like those of a cholo than a hip-hop kid.)

Seeing Jack up on the big screen made me think about how easily America exports our lifestyle. I mean, first some type of sub-culture happens on the streets of the US. Then that culture becomes part of the mainstream media in the US. Then, that mainstream media is played abroad. Then, those media images become a part of the foreign culture. Then, it’s so prevalent in that foreign culture that it’s satired in their mainstream media.

Freaky.

With a return to the Western world only days away, I started getting anxious that me and the travel-around-the-world slightly bohemian wardrobe I’ve packed weren’t ready for it. So with t-minus two days, I was on the hunt for a mini skirt. Even though they were definitely a staple in my SoCal closet, while packing, I’d somehow convinced myself I wouldn’t want one while traveling. In fact, I think I may have even heard Stacey and Clinton telling me I was too old for them and put them all out in the yard sale or donated them to Goodwill. But here, I’ve decided even Stacey and Clinton would give me a couple more years (at least until I was officially in my late 20s) before banishing them from my closet…and I should get one for Australia.

Before I went to the stores, I hit up an ATM outside a 7 Eleven where I noticed a scale and decided to see where my good ol’ weight was at. Eeeks. It confirmed I’m now at the same weight I was in middle school. To add to the confirmation, as the digital numbers came into focus, the machine started blaring Disney’s “It’s a Small World.” Hmmm…I guess if I were trying to lose weight, I’d be happy to hear that when my kilos came up…

But then as I tried on skirt after skirt, I kept having to move up in size. Yep. Even though I’m smaller than I usually am, in a still-developing country, I’m a size Large around the middle section.

Now that I think about it, the song wasn’t telling me I’m small but that the world I’m in is smaller than me. Der…

Away from the US, I’ve realized I really rely on my instincts to guide so many of my choices. In the end, I often shy away from things that are seemingly normal to others, or I’ll accept or do things that most people would never do. And in a foreign place where I don’t speak the language, sometimes my instincts are all I’ve got. In the end, I trust my instincts more than just about anything else. (And well, you know, I did once have a psychic tell me I had my own psychic abilities…)

Really, though. That’s why two days ago I peaced out on my room in Kanchanaburi before my reservation ran out, the first time I’ve done that on this trip. Something about my inability to fall asleep there that first night gave me the heebie-jeebies!

It’s also why I didn’t freak out at the Tiger Temple yesterday when a tiger cub pulled me down and started knawing away at my skin. Yeah, it hurt when he sunk his teeth into the back of my neck, but I knew he was just playing and not going for blood (the worried look on my face was due to the fact that I’d recently had my Missouri Football t-shirt go MIA…in Vietnam, nonetheless…and was afraid he’d bite a hole in this shirt, causing me to be down two good ones…).

And it’s why on my way to catch the bus back into Kanchanaburi, I accepted a ride with a group of Thai construction workers to the bus station. And why, when they looped back through on their way to Kanchanaburi 20 minutes later, I hopped back into the cab of their truck. The five men and one woman spoke little English, but something about them made me immediately aware I could trust them.

But as I got out and waved good-bye, I about died laughing. The four guys in the truck bed had slipped navy blue knit ski masks over their heads to protect their lungs from cars’ exhausts. Mmm…I have a feeling if they’d had those on before they picked me up, I may have doubted my instincts that riding with them would be OK…

Last time I’d stayed at this guesthouse in Bangkok (when I was there two months ago), they handed me a standard wooden keychain with my room number on it. I guess the room 39 key must’ve gotten lost at some point because this time I was handed a key strung onto a keychain with a baseball mitt and red-and-white baseball with “New York” printed all over it.

Ah…baseball and New York…two of my favorite things in America. Mmm, but generally not together…

You haven’t had breakfast yet, you’re not finished packing, and your bus arrives in a half-hour. What do you do? Run across the street to 7-Eleven and grab some Oreos, of course.

FYI: They make a great lunch, too (just not in the same day).

“Americans are very nice. They like to volunteer and help people. Why?”

When I needed to contact a local orphanage so I could volunteer there, I had the man at the front desk of my Chiang Mai guesthouse help me make the call. After I finished, he just kept saying that I was so nice to want to volunteer. I laughed and disagreed. Then, he remembered that the two American girls who’d checked in the night before were working with NGOs in the area and said I should speak to them. That’s when he made the above comment.

I personally choose to volunteer because I believe I can make a difference. I believe that everyone in life deserves a fair go, but that the equality of getting it is rarely there. And, I guess at the deepest root of it all, I believe the meaning of life is to make others’ lives better. But he didn’t ask why I volunteered. He asked why Americans do.

So I thought for a while and tried to piece together what influenced me and what might be in our culture that makes us want to say “I’ll help!” Trying as best as I could to answer his question, I said that it might be partially due to the strong history of missionary work in the US. Even if a lot of American volunteers nowadays weren’t Christian or religious, missionaries paved the way for our society’s belief in helping others. He nodded and mentioned that there are a lot of American missionaries here, too, and had been in the past as well.

Later that night, I tried to think of other things that may influence the number of American volunteers he sees; I know that some westerners also knowingly or unknowingly prescribe to the idea of “white man’s burden,” which can influence how/where people choose to volunteer. And then there’s the whole impact of 9/11…which, if NGO application numbers (like those of Teach For America) are any indication, definitely influenced a generation to help others. And, of course, there’s always the desire to travel to far-off places, and volunteering along the way is a way to dissuade any guilt or comments from others (or get a long-term visa).

But that’s about where my train of thought has ended. Although I know there are actually hundreds of possible reasons. Do you have your own theory? Any sociological thoughts you’d like to volunteer are definitely welcome.

At a temple last week, I was walking toward BB when three novice monks (ones who are studying at the monk university) asked me where I was from. I talked with them a bit but felt a bit awkward. I couldn’t help but feel they were definitely flirting when they kept trying to convince me I should help them with their English the next day. Why did I feel awkward? They were 17. Seventeen! Oh yeah…and they’re monks!

But, talking with them, I did realize that them thinking about girls/women isn’t as far-fetched for them as I thought; they weren’t all planning on being monks for life (but they are still 17). They’re there to learn about the religion, and as one of them said, “to make my parents happy,” and like quite a few other novice monks, they’re also there because this is one of the few ways they could get higher education.

The monk I met a few days ago [above] told me, “You’re lucky you’re American.” He then went on to talk about how great it is that we have such broad access to higher education in the States. After working with Teach For America for two years where we were constantly reminded how access to education isn’t equal in the US, his off-the-cuff comment was a reminder that although our education system has some problems, others may still envy it.

PS: I also asked him about bargaining. Monks sometimes do it too. Whew!

Chiang Mai is full of men with pick-up lines. It can be “Do you need a taxi?” or “Where are you going?” or sometimes it’s just a slow down with a little honk. Indeed, they’re all trying to get me in their little red trucks and take me to my next destination.

These trucks are how people travel in Chiang Mai. Songtaews, or red taxis, are the main mode of transportation. It’s a bit different, these vehicles. After flagging down one (if you haven’t already had one offered), you tell the driver your destination. If he’s already going somewhat in that direction, he’ll nod you in to the back of the truck. If not, with a shake of his head, he’ll send you back to the curb to flag down the next guy. Routes obviously vary depending on what places he needs to get to, so you’ll likely not take a direct route. And the price can be negotiated before or after. In the city, they’re rarely packed. But take one to another town, and expect the driver to only leave with a full load o’ passengers…and more will be flagged in along the route. Imagine being in the back of a pick-up with fourteen other riders (and a few bags), and four guys hanging off the back.

Riding in them actually reminds me a bit of my childhood and riding in the back of my dad’s pick-up (I’m from a small town). Sidebenches aside, the main difference, though, is my dad’s truck was a Ford. Oddly, though, none of the red taxis are Ford…or Chevy…or even GMC. They’re mostly Isuzu, but there are also a few Toyotas, Nissans, Mitsubishis, and Mazdas. I’ve seen some Fords and Chevrolets on the street, but none are in use for the taxi men (yeah, I’ve only seen male drivers). I noticed this mainly because American pick-up drivers are some of the few Yanks who usually believe American vehicles are the best-made. As a past American pick-up driver myself (I’m from a small town, remember?), I agreed with that. Obviously, though, the songtaew men, don’t.

Not fully digging the songtaews, I spent the last week riding around a neon green motorbike that I affectionately named BB. I’d been riding on the back of my friends’ bikes here, and after a week of that, I figured I could handle one, too. My friend Mike said, “It’s like riding a bicycle.” After paying my 150-baht-a-day (about $5) rental fee, I hopped on and started it up. Mike was right. It is kind of like a bicycle, but I think it’s a bit closer to a riding lawnmower (it’s that small-town thing, again). Every day when I’d ride BB, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d be cutting the front yard.

But once again, motorbikes in Chiang Mai are also definitely on the Asian side…Yamaha and Honda are the big brands here. BB was a Yamaha. I’ll sure miss him! One of the coolest parts of having BB around was every time a taxi man gave me his pick-up line, I could mime riding a motorbike, and he’d just smile and drive on.