And Now for Something Completely Different

Among East African countries, Ethiopia is incredibly unique. The culture, the landscape, the clothing, the food, it all stands tribute to a country that isn’t quite like any other. An interesting combination of Middle Eastern and African influences, visible in the facial features, hair texture, and style of dress, stepping off the plane in Ethiopia was the beginning of an experience like no other.

With landscape remarkably similar to the American Southwest, only with a slight, almost imperceptible, color change, Ethiopia is dry, arid, and sparsely populated outside of the capital city of Addis Ababa. And outside of this bustling city, you find a country that relies on agriculture, where farm animals clatter down cobblestone streets or sleep in the shade of gas pumps; where donkeys and camels laden with crops, water, or cargo often outnumber motor vehicles.

The food itself speaks of strong tradition. The brewing of coffee is ritualized, complete with a ceremony. The staple bread, a pancake called injera, is made from a grain only available in Ethiopia (which, lucky for me, happens to be gluten free). Topped with any variety of sauces or stews (currently without meat, as we are here during their Lenten fasting period), injera is eaten using only the right hand.

Even time works a bit differently here. Okay, more than a bit. Following the Ethiopian (Coptic Christian) calendar, it is currently August of 2005. And when it comes to telling time of day, a bit of clarification is necessary. Our midnight and noon (12 a.m. and 12 p.m.), are instead placed at sunrise and sunset. So, for the Ethiopians, what we consider 7 a.m. is 1 a.m., as you have had one hour of daylight. It can all get a bit confusing.

Men and women walk cloaked in long pieces of white fabric, many women keeping their heads covered; though this seems more about keeping the strong sun at bay than about strict modesty. Religious tattoos can be seen on hands and forearms, necks and jaw lines, cheeks and foreheads.

And, though it is such a unique and different culture, we have (for the most part) been welcomed with smiles and warm greetings. 

Contrasting Colors

Though teeming with tourists, Antigua is one of Guatemala’s more picturesque towns. Once a grand capital of Spanish colonialism in Central America, today Antigua’s restored glory mostly benefits the tourism sector and the tourists it serves.

That being said, it is a wonderful place to while away a day or two, and hunker down under a blanket or two at night. Ringed with volcanoes, crisscrossed with cobblestone streets, and smattered with churches and cathedrals, Antigua is brimming with photo opportunities and steeped in history.

Massive ruins of once great churches destroyed by earthquakes punctuate Antigua, a glimpse into the Spaniards’ reasoning behind abandoning the city and moving the capital to modern-day Guatemala City. Ruins rest alongside newer cathedrals, past and present hand in hand.

Throughout the city, local indigenous Mayans in native dress, colorful and hand-woven, pedal goods to tourists. Baskets effortlessly balanced atop their heads, they offer everything from fruit to jewelry, stopping here and there in the shade to rest.

And, as in many towns across the world, the real commerce takes place not in stores, shops, or through street vendors, but in the local market. A sweaty, hectic labyrinth, aisles of the market weave and intersect, leading one onward. From shoes, live chickens, and fake flowers to shampoo, produce, or raw meat, all necessities are available at a price. Hawkers call out their wares, voices mingling repetitive calls like so many birds.

The market sits in stark contrast to Antigua’s artesian market, with its wide, clean aisles of stall upon stall of similar goods. The artesian market is a place of tranquility, a sudden silence, shut off from the chaos of the market next door. Souvenirs and trinkets in vibrant hues are pushed at tourists, t-shirts and purses, hammocks and toys.

It is this that strikes me most about Antigua: its contradictory natures coexisting side by side. It is Burger King in a colonial-style building, an ancient church facade in front of a modern structure. The old and the new mingle. The genuine and the artificial mix. In Antigua, the modern dress and the indigenous garb walk down the same streets, harmonizing beautifully. 

Free Toes, Fluttering Wings

As the jeep bounced along, overflowing with tourists and Colombians, I felt a tad underdressed. The other white folk had donned hiking boots, rubber galoshes, and carried plastic ponchos in preparation for the day’s trek. I was sporting my usual flipflops and yoga-inspired clothes (read: comfortable), my only actual shoes, in fact a pair of much-underused running shoes, waiting patiently, still packed away in my backpack in Ocaña. So, as the jeep jerked to a halt, there I sat, flipflop-clad but ready to hike.

A rutted dirt road led us down into Cocora Valley, past a trout hatchery and weaving between cow-specked farmlands. Towering wax palms dotted the hillside, stretching up surreally from otherwise treeless fields and hills, reaching as though they could brush the azure of the bright morning sky. The road, a mere track only passable for humans and their equine friends, carried us onward, graciously dipping into patches of shade as it headed toward a lush cloud forest.

The landscape changed abruptly and dramatically as the trail dumped us, reeling, from the illuminated fields into the dense, shadowy tree cover. Ancient trees, some laden with leaves the size of your face, tangled overhead, offering respite from the nearly-midday sun. With the shade came the trail’s inability to recover from the previous day’s rain. The mud, mixed with ever-present horse droppings, forced me to spring from rock to rock, searching out dry spots for my exposed feet, where others could simply tromp along the trail how they pleased.

Back and forth, up and over, the trail wound through the dense vegetation. Here and there we crisscrossed a river as it tumbled toward the valley behind us, swaying precariously on one person suspension bridges. Waiting as, one-by-one we bottlenecked behind another gringo cluster, a butterfly alighted on my bare toes. He even stuck with me for several steps.

Disclaimer: Though I felt blessed at the time, as I always feel when a butterfly chooses me as a temporary resting place, these butterflies would turn out to be a bizarrely friendly variety.

Following our hummingbird hangout at Acaime Natural Reserve, we stopped for a cheese-and-crackers lunch on the return hike. Perched along the river bank, we happened upon a massive kaleidoscope of butterflies. (I thank science for this bit of beauty, as ‘kaleidoscope’ is actually a proper name for a group of butterflies.)

Clustered about muddy pools collecting in the rocks alongside the river, their sheer numbers made the ground look as though it were ready to take off all at once with the whisper of so many delicate wings. Not only did the butterflies flutter about my toes, but they seemed genuinely to lack typical butterfly skittishness. Perhaps drawn by the salt of crackers and sweat, they climbed onto our outstretched hands, flitted about our hair, and even ventured an exploratory journey onto our noses.

Though, as infatuated as they were with us, and we with them, the spell was broken with the muddy, stomping intrusion of a stray dog looking to share our lunch. The dog quickly took up the role of new friend, joining us for the remainder of the hike back through the cloud forest. He trotted along ahead, fur shining in as he tromped through patches of sunlight, stopping every so often to glance back and make sure we silly humans were still following the path he bravely laid out for us.

Though he too parted ways with us, leaving us as the cloud forest trickled out and gave way to the rolling hills and wax palms of the valley, we were left with the sweet afterglow of a day spent in the embrace of nature. Even if that embrace left my feet a bit filthy.

Braided

As someone who attended a catholic high school, I understand the pros and cons of school uniforms. Pro: never having to think about what you wear. Con: having very little options for individual style. My Thai students, much like myself when I was their age, use what little materials they have at their disposal to create a unique fashion sense. Bracelets, glasses, hats, and sweatshirts splash color across the white and red palette of CVK. The only other tool they have: their hair.

At our last school, they were militant in their rules regarding hair. All boys had to keep their hair close-cropped, girls up to M3 (9^th grade) had to have their hair bobbed to the chin, and older girls had to have their longer hair tied back in a white or black ribbon. Any disobedience was met with scissors or a buzz clipper and zero regard for the appearance of the end result. The worst offenders had the worst haircuts.

Here at CVK, they are far more laid-back on the hair rules. Yes, the boys’ hair is supposed to be buzzed short, but they only have checked the length (by cutting out chunks in the back to force a trip to the barber) twice this year. The girls are supposed to keep their long hair tied back in a red ribbon (to match their skirt), but there are no strict guidelines on what that entails.

The most incredible feats of French braiding happen in my classes. They swirl around and down one side, they start at the bottom and work their way up from the nape. They fishtail, they waterfall, they twist. The girls even make French braids that, viewed from the back, make the shape of a heart. And with the girls' long, sleek black hair, the braids are not only beautiful, but practically perfect.

And from watching it all, I have learned lots of new French braid tricks to try on myself (or maybe friends first) in the future. And thank goodness for them; my beauty toolbox was surprisingly low on tricks for long hair. 

Prettydressoholic

I’m not very girly. I barely wear any makeup. I only own a smattering of jewelry.  I don’t drool over purses or shoes. I hardly ever manage to do more with my hair than letting it air-dry. But, I love wearing pretty dresses.

I love the light, feminine feel of a dress. I adore how wearing something nice can make ordinary days feel like some sort of occasion. In tropical heat, a dress is an elegant, airy solution to temperature control (read: sweat prevention). Pants are stifling; shorts are uncomfortable and not very attractive; skirts I wear to school five days a week. I, quite simply, would be happy only wearing dresses.

Since coming to Southeast Asia, my dress wardrobe has expanded over and over again. Patterns, colors, and cut vary, but not my clothing choices. It’s all dresses for me. I can admit when I have a problem. And I do not, thanks to the baht and Thai cost of living. A dress here, reasonable and purchased at a street market or from a small local shop, runs me the equivalent of six to ten US dollars. Spending Thai baht makes an otherwise dangerously expensive shopping habit into something relatively manageable.

However, I recently spent an obscene amount on a dress. This dress, beckoning to me from its mannequin, had caught my attention every time we drove past a certain store front. It was like nothing I have seen in Thailand, in terms of both cut and material. Made from imported blue and pale silver-purple Nepalese silk, the two-sided wraparound dress can be worn six ways. I was in love. At 950 baht (just under thirty dollars), the price was five times higher than my normal dress purchases. But how often do you fall in love? So, I bought it, regret-free.

Lucky for me, that expense was a rarity in this country. I just have to stick to my regular 200 baht dresses for a bit to stay within a reasonable dress budget. That is, until next month when I will most likely go buy a vibrant yellow-orange dress from the same store. I just can’t help myself.

The Underwear Bandit and My Misadventures as a Thai XL

We are lucky enough at our house in Chiang Rai to have a washing machine. Last semester, when we were living in Ratchaburi, we weren’t so fortunate. Win would bungee the full laundry basket to the basket on his bike and precariously bike the clothes to and from a laundry mat (some lady who washes clothes).

Having our very own washing machine makes everything much easier. I get up on sunny weekend mornings, throw in a load of clothes, wait an hour, and then hang them outside. I don’t think that dryers even exist in Thailand, so we have adapted to Thai-style drying: a moveable rack that goes into to the sun when possible, and out of the rain when it inevitably starts raining. It’s a bit of a pain, but our clothes smell of sunshine (unless of course they smell of mildew, then it’s back into the washer they go).

I thought this was a lovely, borderline-flawless system. Then, disaster struck.

While moving some still-damp clothes back into the sun, I noticed something peculiar. A large quantity of my underwear and a strapless bra were missing. Since everything else was intact, I began looking around, thinking surely the wind was to blame. But they were nowhere to be seen. Underwear, gone. Clothes pins still in place, I knew this had to be the work of a human. Some human who deemed it acceptable to come into our yard and thong-nap my cute American underwear, lace and all. But, they were courteous enough to leave two pairs.

Two pairs. A person cannot live with two pairs of underwear. Now, none of this would be a problem were I living in America. It might cost a lot replacing nearly every pair of underwear you own, but it’s not an unjumpable hurtle.

But here I am, in Thailand, Land of the World’s Tiniest Women. I don’t know where the fat ladies get their underwear here (or clothes in general), but it can’t just be at any old store. I know. I go into stores and am told “Oh, very big size. No have.” I am a Thai XL.

So I venture into the local underwear store, and it’s like a Victoria’s Secret for malnourished children. I peruse the bras. Nothing over a 34/75, which I have learned through comparison shopping, will almost hold Win’s chest if he doesn’t breathe. Out of luck in the bra department, I head over to the underwear to give that a try. I ask, as I have grown accustomed to, for the large sizes. “Free size,” the girl behind the counter responds, glancing up her magazine. This is Thai Engrish for One Size Fits All.

I bought the stretchiest, biggest underwear they had in the place, steering clear of those with patterns acceptable only for eight-year-olds. They were cheap: I got 12 pairs for 240 baht (8 dollars), and thank goodness for that. About half of them turned out to be acceptable, the other half not so much. Although I suppose that if I sewed about four pairs together I could get one regular-sized pair of underwear.

Markets of Thailand: Chatuchak

Bangkok’s Chatuchak Weekend Market is, hands down, one of the most eclectic places we’ve seen in our travels. A jumble of food stands, tourists, animals, thais, and merchants, as well as a park and a mall, comprise the majority of this marketplace behemoth. Covering over 35 acres and containing thousands of vendor stalls, Chatuchak is not only Thailand’s largest market, but also the largest open-air market in the world.

Chatuchak is where I finally stopped making Win argue over all the prices and learned to do it myself. A maze of sois (small streets) and roads, Chatuchak is a bargain hunter paradise. Haggling is standard, and this is a great place to practice your negotiation skills. And, as we have discovered, knowing Thai numbers is the best tool to have when it comes to not getting ripped off. I might not be the best bargainer (I don’t have the will to walk away from something I really like), but I’ve certainly improved.

Hidden in the middle of the labyrinth of stalls is a section that resembles a pet store. Here you can buy 

puppies, kittens, birds, or bunnies. And the pets are only outnumbered by the vast selection of dog attire. The Thais are very big on the tiny dog trend. This is also where we nearly bought a $10 squirrel, stopped only by the logistics of transporting a squirrel. They also have hedgehogs, sugar gliders, and various other animals for sale, as well as supposedly being the center of black market for endangered and rare animals.

Everything from clothes and shoes to raw meat and fruits is available at the market. There is a separate fish and aquarium section, where you can get beta, koi, or frogs in all sizes and colors. Trinkets abound --- jewelry, knockoff antiques, candles, incense, windchimes, toys, art --- you name it, someone’s probably selling it. 

A bubble-blowing machine? Sure. Thai silk? It’s everywhere. Looking for a dragon made out of rope? It’s yours. In the mood for an over-priced draught beer while avoiding the mid-day sun? They serve those in the furniture store. Cheap dress? No problem. Bag of crickets? Whatever floats your boat.

Inevitably we end up turned around and disoriented, roaming through the hot tunnels under the protection of the various overlapped tarps, but we typically find something worthwhile. And if not something worthwhile, we still always find something.

Free Little Piggies

 

 As a huge proponent of spending as much time barefoot as possible, I adore the Thai tradition of removing one’s shoes before going inside. It might be a little time-consuming constantly taking off and putting back on your shoes, but in a country with all tile floors it does keep things quite a bit cleaner. It also leads to an increased acceptability of flipflops in most situations, for which I am more than grateful.

This is customary in all temples, homes and in some smaller, family-run shops. It is also the standard at our school. All students are expected to stop and take off their shoes at the bottom of the stairs, before going to class. They then pick up their shoes and carry them with them to the classroom, where they either put them in one long row at the back of the room or in the hall, or put them under their desks. 

So far I have only tripped over three shoes. Not bad for being fairly clumsy and having taught twenty-two classes each week, each with 40 plus pairs of shoes scattered about, for the past six weeks. My only issue with the situation is that while my students get to run around in stocking feet all day, I have to wear shoes.

Markets of Thailand: The Weekend Walking Street

Once upon a time in Thailand, it was decided that there should be a fair every week, complete with food stalls, trinkets, useful items at discount prices, and maybe even a concert. Also, in order for this fair to run smoothly, a minimum of three blocks must be cordoned off for pedestrian use only. And every town in Thailand must have one of these walking street night markets (as they are so elegantly named). Based on our experience, I’m pretty sure this is Thai law.

Thanks to the existence of night markets, I not only have acquired lots of useless (read: adorable) junk, but I’ve managed to buff up the parts of my wardrobe that fall within our uniform. Skirts in gray, purple, and red, as well as tee-shirts that look nearly professional (Thais are much smaller than us Americans) were a must for this term. Clearly necessary, as I already have a goofy styrofoam/yarn giraffe, were a cartoon dog to hold my toothbrush, an ashtray shaped like a turtle, a mug with a frog perched on the handle, and earrings shaped like various desserts.

Also thanks to the night markets, I have eaten ostrich, deer, and alligator (crocodile?), as well as numerous other varieties of meat-on-a-stick. Pork buns, fried quail eggs, pad thai, corn with butter and sugar, super sweet fruit shakes, and (if you so desire) the creepy sea version of meat-on-a-stick, whole squid. Dumplings, spring rolls, milk tea, waffles full of raisins, chocolate, or taro, roti pancakes with egg and banana. By definition it’s a smorgasbord.

Plants, clothes, shoes. Hair pins, purses, straightening irons. Helmets, keychains, crocs shaped like dragon claws, sunglasses. Oh, and of course, Thai line dancing (I say line, but it goes in a circle). Inevitably, we will eat on the cheap, but still spend too much. And on Monday morning, we get at least one “Teacher, I see you, walking street.”