Bangkok: The Return

Upon my arrival in Bangkok after a brutal 12 hour train ride which might have been pleasant were it not for my extreme stomach pains and constant trips to the bathroom, we settled in the Atlanta Hotel, located in the heart of Bangkok’s metropolis. Immediately upon entering the Atlanta, I knew I was in a place I would visit again. The hotel is a fierce sponsor of the arts, and proud to be so. In the hotel’s restaurant, there is a small library where guests can participate in a book exchange. People from all over the world, for the past sixty years, have passed trough the hotel and left a book behind, while appropriating one from someone else, perhaps from another country, perhaps from another time. I was vexed that I did not have a book to participate in the exchange, given that the only book I brought with me to Laos was borrowed. I went to see a jovial looking old Westerner sitting behind a desk surrounded by books, thinking he must be the hotel’s librarian. I asked him if I could perhaps rent a book, since I did not have one to give in exchange. He smiled at me and said in a nice British accent, “you don’t really have to leave one, just take one if you find one that pleases you.” I thanked him and was about to turn to the selection when he seemed to take a sudden interest in me and asked, “what language do you read in?” “English” I answered. He then asked me when I was set to leave the hotel, and when I told him my flight to Paris left the following evening he seemed a bit vexed before finally telling me, “you see, I have a personal collection of English books, and I could lend you a great book of non-fiction if you are interested, but you must promise to return it.” Knowing this would be no problem because for one I am a fast reader and for two I was sick and would be spending my entire two days in Bangkok in bed, I told him I promised to do so. Five minutes later he returned with Thomas Keneally’s memoir, Searching for Schindler. I was familiar with Schindler’s Arc, but I had never read the book, nor had I seen Schindler’s List, Steven Speilburg’s movie adaptation. Nonetheless, I was intrigued by the book and very appreciative of the loan.

I returned to my hotel room and began to read Keneally’s story of how he came to know the now legendary story of Oskar Schindler. From this book I got a glimpse of the character of Schindler and I knew at once that I simply had to read Schindler’s Arc. I sent an e-mail to my father asking him to pick up a copy, so that I could begin my reading upon my arrival in Canada.

Unlike Keneally, I wasn’t really fascinated by the seeming duplicity of Schindler’s character, both “sinner” and “saint”. The conundrum that captivated Keneally was to me mere humanity. Perhaps because he had a Catholic upbringing and I had very much the opposite, I was never one to think that a person’s indulgence in liquor, food, or sex was a factor in determining whether or not they were a genuinely good person. To me, compassion was the decisive factor, and compassion Schindler possessed. I was more fascinated by the courage and absolute conviction in his belief’s that it took for this man to risk his life for the benefit of others during so strict and terrifying a regime. Compassion aside, the Nazi regime was a powerful propaganda machine that succeeded in convincing the minds of countless educated and cultured people that “racial cleansing” was not immoral but for the better of mankind. Something inside of Schindler was able to push aside the overbearing message of the media and belief of his time, and see the people whom he saved for the individuals that they were. Not as one of the countless Jews that were doomed to death, not as a nameless face to be used and thrown away, not as a lesser being under his power, but as a human. As someone’s mother, father, son or daughter, standing in front of him starving and suffering, and whom it was within his power to help.

I remember visiting the Holocaust Museum in Montreal when I first moved there. The museum was memorable because it gave me a new perspective on the Holocaust. Aside from the accounts of the terrible deaths and atrocities that occurred during the Holocaust, which I was already familiar with, the museum also offered a glimpse into the propaganda and use of media that allowed Hitler to convince a nation, an entire nation, that Jews did not deserve to live. I remember seeing the posters and hearing translated versions of what had once been spoken on the radio or television. After my visit, I remember the strange and scary feeling that accompanied the thought, “he made it seem so justified.” As a child, I was haunted by the mystery as to how so many people could watch human suffering and not do anything to help. My young mind could not contemplate how so many people could partake in such atrocities. I have since learned that human nature is a mysterious thing. A story like Schindler’s would have most certainly been received by my young self as an account of the ordinary, a normal reaction any human would have in his situation. As an adult, I am fascinated that a man did not succumb to the immense temptation that power offers to anyone: abuse.

Getting Sick, A.K.A Sticky Rice Extravaganza

Halfway through the last week I started to experience extremely painful stomach cramps, at times I had pangs so sharp I couldn’t breathe. I had to spend a lot of time in bed, and was forced to eat nothing but sticky rice for four consecutive days. To make my food more appealing while the people around me dined on a great variety of sumptuous foods, I molded my sticky rice into different shapes and sizes before shoving it down my throat. Unfortunately, no matter how much you play with it, sticky rice always tastes like sticky rice. I eventually got so tired of it that I gave up eating altogether, which worked out nicely because then I could concentrate entirely on my pain.

This, my friends, is what will eventually happen if you ignore an upset stomach and “cure” it with immodium for three consecutive weeks. The doctor I saw had a very scary name for it: Intestine Infection. Yikes.

Because we were no longer in the city, but out on the countryside for the second week of day camp, I could not see a doctor until the Friday of that week. We had made our return to the city on Thursday night and were scheduled to leave for Bangkok on Friday evening. After diagnosing me my doctor gave me three different kinds of medication and told me that my pain and infection would last another five days, or in other words, for the entire duration of my travel home.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Of course this would happen to me! Still, my time in Laos taught me the very basic lesson that we should not complain about the cards we have been dealt, we should always appreciate both the good and the bad. All experiences are, after all, experiences. If anything we learn, n’est ce pas?

Because it was my last day in Laos, and because I had been blessed with this new mentality to embrace all in life, I decided that despite my diagnosis I would put on a brave face and visit the AFESIP girls one last time. A lot of the girls are studying to be hairdressers or manicurists/pedicurists, and the beauty shop where they work and learn was not too far from my hotel. I went straight from the hospital to the beauty shop, where underwent what felt like an eternity of pampering. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated it. But to say that I enjoyed it would be a blatant lie. Truth is, I was sufferin yo.

The girls were ecstatic to see me, and when I walked in they took me by the hand and led me to a chair, where they sat around touched me and said things to me that I’m sure were nice but I could not understand. I asked them to cut my hair, but they at first refused. Instead, they fetched their teacher and told me that they did not want to mess anything up, so they would prefer to let her do the job. I was adamant. I did not go out of my way in pain to have some stranger cut my luscious, (broken), locks off. In the end they caved. A few of them crowded around my head to cut and talk and fix each other’s mistakes. I asked them to cut off an inch, but the hair that went halfway down my back is now shoulder length. Whatever. I was hurting so bad I didn’t care anyways. Having to sit still and act happy when you are suffering is one of the hardest things to do. I think they noticed something was wrong when my eyes started rolling into my head, and I started taking deep breaths and sweating buckets. Three of them actually stood around me and fanned me with magazines for the duration of the cut. When they were done I had to unstick myself from the plastic chair I was in. They gasped when they saw that my entire back was drenched in sweat. Such joy. But they were so sweet and they took me by the hand and brought me to another chair where they continued to fan me. They kept taking my hand and repeating the word “nice”, then pointing to me. I would obviously do it all again.

I was still, however, glad when it was over. I could finally go back to my hotel and lie down. Unfortunately, it was only for a few hours, after that I had to hop on the train to leave the country. Let my traveling adventure begin!

VYDA Day camp

After the emotionally draining weekend that followed our goodbye session with the girls from AFESIP, I was reunited with the MSR team before our departure to a small village where we would complete our second and last week of VYDA day camp.

The village we went to was fantastic. It was simple and quaint, and people were friendly and curious because they don’t see many tourists in the area. When we walked down the streets and went to local markets people smiled and waved to us, yelling out Sabaidi, (hello), whenever they caught our glance.

The ride was not so torturous as previous ones, and it was only one hour from the city. When we arrived, we dropped our bags off at the hotel and went straight to the community centre where we would meet the participants and begin our sessions.

We had quite the shock when we walked in. The kids from our first week of day camp ranged in age from eight to thirteen. They were young, energetic, and uninhibited. Contrastingly, we walked into the centre to find a group of adolescents in school uniforms. As you can imagine, this changed everything for us. All the games we planned to play, even the gifts we had purchased in advance for them, were no longer relevant. Try giving a sixteen year old a Barbie coloring book and some crayons while keeping a straight face. Although I personally would have been pleased with the gift, and quite possibly would have been occupied for a few blissful hours, I was nonetheless aware that they would laugh at our pathetic attempt at generosity.

After we had all exchanged worried glances and whispered nervously about what to do, we sat down and began the introductions. Since we were there and had no time to come up with a new program, we went right ahead with the games that we had originally planned. As you can imagine, sixteen year-old kids are not quite as enthusiastic to get down on the floor and imitate an animal as ten year-old kids are. Teenage years are haunted by the ever-present voice in the back of our heads that continuously asks, What if I look stupid? As if acne and weird patches of wannabe facial hair aren’t bad enough. In reflection, I do think it was good for us to stick with the light and silly games we had planned. They broke the ice and showed everyone that this was a place where it was okay to look foolish.

That night we sat down in semi-panic mode and came up with a program that would be slightly more focused and challenging to match with the age of the group. We decided that even though we only had four days, we would put on an entire play, which I wrote that same night.

It would not have been possible to complete the play if we did not have a professional actress in our midst. Luckily, we had the super hot ball-buster Anne-Solenne Hatte present to whip everyone into shape and get the production going. Anne-So, as we called her, is somewhat famous in Paris. She’s extremely talented and frustratingly beautiful. I consider myself to be a relatively attractive girl, key word being relative. When I stood next to Anne-Solenne I often felt like some sort of creature that had crawled out of a Lady Gaga video. I had contradicting feelings toward her because, although I really enjoyed her company, I preferred if she stood very far away from me. Needless to say, the kids were mesmerized by her. If it hadn’t been for her electric presence and over-the-top stage coaching we wouldn’t have gotten anything done. The downside to doing a theatre program in a Buddhist country is that Buddhists are taught their entire life that any excess of emotion is rude and inappropriate. So when a Buddhist is told to act really sad or really happy, what is conveyed by Western standards appears only to be different shades of neutral. So mad would look slightly annoyed and clinically depressed often appeared to be merely thoughtful.

However, the show must go on, and it did. And although it wasn’t quite the spectacular romantic comedy I envisioned when I wrote it, it was actually quite good. More importantly, the kids really enjoyed the performance, and when we left they all said they were happy to have been introduced to theatre, and that they would continue to learn and practice after we were gone. Even the coloring books ended up making people happy! We gave them to the mass of young children who showed up to watch the final performance, and their looks of awe and appreciation alone were worth the trip to the village. :)