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. :)

... Or See You Later

As a literary student, I have learned to pay close attention to symbolic events. Meals, journeys, or changes of weather are some examples of things that any student of literature will slow down to closely analyze and search for levels of meaning. Weather is often used to represent a mood or indicate a shift in a story. Thunderstorms, for example, often suggest wrath from the Gods, or the occurrence of some unnatural event: black magic, for example. Rain, however, often has a very positive connotation when it is not accompanied by thunder or lightning. Showers represent change, a washing away of old residue, a renewal of life.

So it was not lost on me this morning that after spending a difficult night encumbered by thoughts about what I have learned and seen since my arrival in Laos, I stepped out of the hotel and right into a heavy downpour of warm, refreshing rain.

After our last session at AFESIP we held a short meeting before the rest of the MSR team took off for the weekend. (I decided to stay behind.) During the meeting Julie explained to us that the song the girls sang for us before leaving is a Buddhist song, often sung at funerals. The lyrics, “this is not goodbye, it is until our next encounter” are indicative of the Buddhist belief in reincarnation and the philosophy that nothing is ever lost, only changed.

Buddhism preaches that the cause of all suffering is attachment to worldly things. Being attached causes one to suffer because worldly things are persistently evolving and changing. Impermanence permeates everything we know, including ourselves. In order to relieve one’s self of suffering, one must come to the realization that all things are forever decomposing, dying, coming alive, and changing. Once we have accepted this, it is easier to let go of the things we have “lost”.

One of the more beautiful concepts of Buddhism relates to this idea of “loss”. Like physics, Buddhism preaches that there is never truly a loss, only a change. Basic high school Physics classes introduce us to the concept that matter never disappears, it simply changes forms or turns into energy. Buddhists believe that everything in this world is one and the same, continuously and eternally connected. This is because as one thing dies and decomposes, it changes forms, returns to the earth and becomes part of the life of something new. Every cell in our body is composed of particles that have existed since the beginning of time, that have been part of innumerable combinations of different entities, beings, and matter. Thus parts of us have all at one time been parts of the same entity. The idea that we are completely “individual”, or “separate”, is one of the illusions Buddhists seek to free themselves from.

Unlike other religions, Buddhism does not believe in a single God or creator. Instead, a “Buddha” is simply a human who has achieved a state of Enlightenment and thus has been released from the cycle of life and suffering. Enlightenment occurs when a soul has freed itself from all the attachments and illusions that keep us from being truly happy and free. Every living soul is on a quest for Enlightenment, and the work you put into achieving this goal in your current lifetime will determine the circumstances of your next lifetime. When you have achieved Enlightenment, you are free, released from the cycle of rebirth.

So when the girls sang us a Buddhist song about how “this is not goodbye,” they were not trying to be optimistic about the hopeful but highly unlikely event that one day we might cross each other walking down the street. No, they were saying this is not the end. We have countless more lifetimes, shapes and forms to assume, and chances to meet again.

A wise friend of mine once said to me, “You don’t meet your true friends, you recognize them.” How true it is that the people I am closest to I have always felt an immediate attraction towards. Perhaps sometime in the very, very distant future, I will meet these girls again and something inside me will know that we have a lifetime of friendship ahead of us.

For the present, ever fleeting moment, the rain has subsided and I’ve decided to partake in another event of literary symbolism: the feast. In How to Read Literature Like a Professor, Thomas C. Foster writes, "whenever people eat or drink together, it’s a communion,” and specifies that the message behind the gathering of individuals for a meal is to indicate, “I’m with you, I like you, we form a community together.” Significantly, I dine alone. But as I contemplate the philosophy of the country I have had the chance to visit, it is quite impossible to feel lonely.

Goodbye...

Throughout our sessions at AFESIP we have performed various little skits for the girls focused on male and female friendship. The idea was that we wanted them to see how the two sexes can interact in non-sexual ways. We were attentive to details that would help to portray how the female in the friendship was as assertive, decisive, and independent as the male. For our last session we wanted to perform a skit about love, to show them that it is ok to have a sexual relationship with a man as long as it is mutually respectful. The female lead was none other than yours truly. We began the scene in an office, I am new at work and I ask a co-worker to borrow a pen. He lends me one and asks how long I’ve been with the company, then tells me he’s a veteran and that I can always come to him if I need anything. The next day I ask him for help with a certain client, and we review the portfolio together. I drop a pen and, as we both bend down to pick it up, our hands touch. He gives me his phone number in case I have any questions, then we both go home. That night as I’m making supper I debate as to whether or not I should call him. It was important to us not only to show the progression of time in the piece, but also to show that the woman takes an active role in initiating the relationship by calling the man. We wanted them to make the clear distinction between acting and being acted upon. By the end of the skit, after we have talked on the phone for hours and taken the time to get to know each other, we meet for a date and leave the stage holding hands.

Much like our skits have evolved and changed in nature, so have our sessions with the girls. I remember that during the first session the girls were extremely shy and giggly. They did not look us in the eyes, they did not want to go in the middle of the circle to dance, and they were separated amongst themselves into small exclusive cliques. Throughout the sessions I’ve noticed some significant changes.

White Girl Dance was a humorous blog entry, but for them it is not a joke. These are girls who have been taught that when you dance, you do so seductively. When I began the dance session on our first day together by bopping and pointing and making a complete fool of myself, they followed my lead. Dancing became a means of expression and joy, done for one’s self and not for the benefit of onlookers. Much of our sessions with AFESIP have focused on the idea of acting in ways that make you happy, on being who you want to be.

In the short time we’ve worked together, I’ve noticed that they now love spending time in the middle of the circle, waving their arms and shaking their heads like madwomen. Even more significant, they now interact altogether as a group, not as separate cliques. Also, when they do improvisation or perform a skit, they don’t giggle or turn away from the audience. They no longer feel embarrassed or stupid in front of other people.

So it wasn’t too much of a shock when, after each volunteer had said a small word to the girls, expressing our love and admiration for them, many girls took the opportunity to speak in front of the group. They spoke about their emotions, and about what we had brought to them. These were girls who had trouble telling us their name and age when Julie and I first met them, and now they were giving long, heartfelt speeches. They said that every moment they spent with us made them happier and stronger, that we helped them to express themselves and to gain confidence. They said, “We feel better.” What is more beautiful than that?

After we did all of the initial warm-up exercises we continued with some improvisation, then we filmed a play that we have been working on with them about the objectification of women. It is one of the initial plays they presented to us, where there is one girl who acts as a doll of sorts while the others poke and prod her, fix and place her, then pose for pictures with the final result. The filming was done with masks, so I will be able to post the final version of it shortly.

After that, it was time to say goodbye. At first I thought I could make it through without crying, because, you know, I’m strong and stuff. Who was I kidding? I cry when I watch romantic comedies. I cry when I watch figure skating, or even when I watch the season finale of So You Think You Can Dance. But I can honestly say that although I’m a pathetic crybaby, nine times out of ten, I cry happy tears. I cry because I love to see people fall in love, do something they’re really good at, or fulfill a dream. This time my tears were a physical reaction to acute emotional pain.

We sat them all in a circle and distributed juice, snacks and gifts. We gave them each a group photo of the entire MSR team and themselves. Then the waterworks began. A few of girls, (the Bieber fans), were sitting next to me and holding my hands. As they felt the final goodbye approaching, they began to cry. The translator sitting near us told me they were asking me not to leave, and if I would ever come to visit them again.

I couldn’t help it. I started sobbing like an eight year old who fell off her bike. They swarmed around me and hugged me, which only made me cry more. One of the girls gave a speech about how we were all friends forever, and that even though we will be far apart, we all live under the same sky. She said we could always look up to the sky and know that we have friends in this world.

I cried more.

Then they sang us a traditional Lao song. The translator told us the lyrics meant, “this is not goodbye, this is until our next encounter.” Guess what I did?

I cried more.

So it was difficult. I don’t know how to explain how it felt. It was very different from any other experience I’ve had in my life. When you leave a boyfriend, you do so because you know it is time to move on. With friendships, sometimes people just grow apart. But in this situation, I had befriended these girls despite the language barrier, the difference of age and situation, the limited amount of time. And much like our friendship was a result of a very particular set of circumstances, so was our goodbye. We did not grow apart, we did not have a fight, we could simply no longer be. In the book I am reading the author writes of a farewell supper with her Parisian friends, “the moment we clink glasses, I think of all the people with whom I’ve promised to keep friendships yet haven’t. I truly hope we will.”

When I read this passage today the words “keep friendships” struck me as odd. What does it mean to “keep” a friendship? If you stop talking, have you truly lost a friend? I think my mentality is changing as my sadness subsides. Instead of grieving the loss of my new friends, I am grateful for the knowledge that new friendships have been made. As time moves on and the world keeps turning, these friendships exist now and forever.

Injustice

Surely to inhabit a body that you do not own is the greatest torture a human can be subjected to. The history of slavery that is interlaced with the history of any civilization is at once appalling and, to me, incomprehensible. Imagine the feeling of possessing a mind and soul trapped inside a physical encasing that you at once despise, feel disgusted by, and view as the instrument of all of your suffering. Imagine the feeling of hating the color of the very skin that envelops you and holds together your vitals, giving you life. Imagine the torture of the mind that is trapped by a body that is used and sold as an inanimate object.

What bothers me about the history of the girls at AFESIP has nothing to do with the fact that they were once prostitutes. I’ve seen prostitutes many times before, and they have failed to evoke my sympathy and compassion in the way that these girls have. It is one thing to sell your body to pay for your next fix. It is another thing to sell your body because you are hungry. But it is something altogether different when someone else sells your body for you.

I once took a Graphic Novel class in which we read a book entitled Waltz With Bashir, about the atrocities of the 1982 war in Lebanon. One of the most memorable panels of the book was of dead or injured horses splattered lifeless or suffering across a field after a battle. The book was filled with pages and pages of human suffering; blood; war; panic. The last two panels were real pictures of people taken during the war, crying and pleading, desperation glimmering in their eyes. Yet the most heartbreaking panel of the entire book was still that of the horses. Why?

We discussed the issue a little in class. Some suggested that we are desensitized because of the likes of Red Cross commercials on television. We are overexposed to human suffering. Others said it was because we don’t know these people personally, so they become statistics, numbers.

I think a big part of it is the underlying idea that when a human suffers, they are in some way responsible for it. The panel of horses was especially heartbreaking because horses don’t have religion, they don’t have war, there was no reason for them to die or to suffer. The most aggravating and distressing aspect of the panel was the acute knowledge that the horses did not do this to each other, it was done to them.

This is how I feel about the amazing girls I had the chance to meet this summer. I am not upset because they were prostitutes, but because someone gave themself the divine right to govern over a body that they do not possess, and to use it for their own profit or pleasure. I know that for a period of their lives, these girls, my girls, felt less than human. If I could meet the people who partake in this industry, I can’t imagine the creative ways I would come up with to inflict more and more physical pain upon them. But nothing physical could ever equate the pain of the guilt that I wish they could feel. Unfortunately, no one can impose this upon them.

What we can do is help victims re-appropriate the bodies they were dispossessed of. Thank goodness that organizations like AFESIP exist. I am so grateful that they have allowed us to help these girls in the long process of healing. The entire experience has allowed me to gain not only insight into the pain and strength of others, but also to gain a profound new respect for my own body and how I treat it. I came here to help others, but in the process they have also helped me.

The Chocolate Stash

After a ten-hour ride back to Vientiane and six hours of sleep, we were all up yesterday morning to start the VYDA day camp. This was going to be a long day, and I wasn’t fully mentally prepared for the challenge. The VYDA camp takes one hour to get to, which we do via tuk-tuk on a bumpy road each morning. The camp starts at 9 a.m. and ends at 4 p.m. As a special welcome back gift, we had an AFESIP session from 5 to 6:30 right after. Yay life.

So I was up and ready to leave at 8 in the morning. I had gulped down some Lao coffee, and was fighting drowsiness with pure determination. When we arrived on site we came face-to-face with fifteen highly energetic, very excited children.

The day is a bit of a blur for me. Aside from the loud noise and the physical activity, I know that we had a lot of fun, I'm just too exhausted to remember it all. When we finished day camp we went straight to AFESIP and held a session there. Those girls always give me a boost of energy, so although I entered AFESIP tired and drowsy, I left feeling re-energized for the evening. After coming home, showering, eating, and trying to catch up on my writing a bit, I passed out and slept like a baby. By then it was already close to midnight. I woke up at 6:30 a.m. ready to do it all again.

The kids are awesome, but draining. It doesn’t help that we work all day in the hot and humid weather either. The noise and the heat worked together to give me a wonderfully aching head all afternoon. When I got back to the hotel this evening, I was tired, lazy, and a bit homesick. I wanted to do something I haven’t done in a month: watch television. I needed mindless entertainment. I needed mid-twenty year old sex bombs playing teenagers with White Girl Problems.

No such luck. The internet here is not strong enough to stream anything. After desperately trying for an hour, I finally gave into my exhaustion and frustration. I assumed the fetal position, went spiraling down into a mini depression, and ran for the chocolate stash my mom had given me especially for these occasions.

The stash, composed of four Lindt chocolate bars, was given to me with orders to use in cases of homesickness, loneliness, or sadness. Up until now, I haven’t needed it at all.

I settled into my bed with my chocolate and a book that was lent to me about a thirty-some year old woman who put life on hold to move to Paris and get engaged. I read about her gushing love story and ate chocolate. It was a really, excessively pathetic moment.

Just so you know, reading love stories and eating chocolate does NOT work. What does work is a short Skype session with my sister and nephew. Oh Jordan, thank goodness for the one boy who can always make me smile :)