Nearby Neighbor

Traveling from Thailand to Indonesia is a bit like visiting a friend whose house has the same floor plan as your own; everything is familiar, but the furniture is bizarrely different. The Elaborate Buddhist temples have been replaced by equally elaborate mosques, the tuk-tuks replaced with sidecar-wielding becaks.

Call to prayer, haunting and melodic, pours over the buildings, snaking in through windows and doors. It wakes you in the morning, and bids you farewell at night. Hijabs of every hue cover the heads of devout women, equally a proclamation of faith and a fashion accessory. Cats lounge and prowl in broad daylight, flaunting their power in the absence of canine competitors. The fried rice has a bit of a kick, the variety of local curries an even bigger one. 

The landscape and weather are both similar in temperament to what we live with in Thailand. Tropical flowers, palm trees, and banana leaves abound; fried rice and noodles rule the kitchen; smiles are offered openly and easily. Yet, touching down in Indonesia’s northern island of Sumatra, we are greeted by a land that is still incredibly travel-worthy, with a diverse culture, rare plant and animal life, and a lush array of landscapes. 

Despite being so close to Thailand, both in kilometers and in attitude, and despite having been to Java and Bali in the past, Sumatra offered us a whole new world to explore.

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. 

Mzungu! Mzungu!

Gringo. Gavacho. Farang. Keenok. Suddha. Mzungu. As foreigners in a foreign land, the first word we learn in the local dialect is what they call us, the white people.  Schoolchildren shout it as we pass by. It jumps out in conversations held by locals. Sometimes it is derogatory in nature. Other times it is used matter-of-factly: we are the outsiders.

Here, in Rwanda, and throughout much of Africa, we are greeted with Mzungu! Mzungu! A Swahili term meaning ‘aimless wanderer’, the tag was originally applied to European explorers. Also used is the Kinyarwanda word Rutuku, or ‘red’, for the color we turn in the sun. Which is, in some ways, better than a name originating from bird shit or pink/white fruit, as is the case in Thailand.

And, despite the large number of expats in Kigali, never before have we been so clearly the foreigners. With almost nothing to speak of in the way of tourism (aside from some incredibly expensive gorillas), the number of white folks coming through Rwanda is miniscule compared to some of the more touristic countries. We are, in some ways, still a novelty: children run up to us in mobs to say hello, good afternoon, and touch our hands; I’ve even received a couple of hugs.

Our skin color, our hair, our clothing, our language, all of these things make us noticeably and immediately different. Unfortunately, the world over, these things make people assume we are inherently wealthy. We have discovered that it also means that, here in Rwanda, they assume we have the correct answer for every situation. Although, that is probably just because they don't have the hordes of drunk tourists visible in some places (another assumption we try to dissuade people from making about Westerners).

And though my name is not Mzungu, and I will not pay higher, mzungu prices, we try always to be good ambassadors for the white people, our fellow gringos, the farang spread across the globe, doling out handshakes, conversations, and hugs, dispersing myths of automatic wealth and knowledge, and spreading smiles.

A World Away

Following a year of Southeast Asian travel, Sri Lanka provided a drastic change and a trip full of the unexpected. The climate varied between much hotter and much colder than Thailand, with little in between. While we were expecting food similar to that of southern India, we received many uniquely Lankan culinary experiences. And, all of the coconuts were orange.

Everywhere we went, we were apparently an equally unexpected sight. Dhoti-clad, shirtless men and saree’d women sent sour-faced stares in our direction; however, even the slightest smile was answered with big toothy grins and friendly ‘hello’s.

From Negombo’s pack of stray Pomeranians and the hordes of crows crowding telephone wires and trees nationwide to beach-roaming cows and Galle’s freakishly large monitor lizard population, not even the animals were what we expected.

We wanted a change from the life to which we have become accustomed, a change from the similar cultures, foods, religions, and travel experiences of Southeast Asia. And that is most certainly what we got in Sri Lanka. 

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.

Like a Velcro Snowball, Picking up Fuzzy New Mexicans One at a Time

Recently there have been a record number of New Mexicans in Thailand. Truthfully, we were more than a little bit responsible for the phenomenon.

Yes, it’s true that we invited and encouraged Jenny and Ansel to purchase plane tickets and venture across the wide ocean, even going so far as to offer up our spare bedroom. And yes, we did plan a comprehensive itinerary that resulted in the intersecting of many New Mexican lives and the intoxication that ensued.

And, we must admit, it was us who thought of Mr. Bradley Opatz when we heard of an opening at the university, way off in the jungle and covered with monkeys, where our friends work. However, it isn’t our fault that he fits in so well or likes it so much. Although, we did know in advance that “Bladley is so lubley”. We should have seen it coming. Kop.

However, we accept no responsibility for Mikal Davis’ presence in Thailand. But since he chased us all over the place, always a day behind our travels, we might as well drink a beer or two with him. And I’m sure when we were in Bali and Java with him, we might have said he was welcome to stop by, but there’s no hard evidence that the conversation ever took place.

And Jacqueline mentioned that she wanted a job, we can’t help it that we ambushed her with a job, a place to stay, and a surrogate Thai mother. We didn’t know she wasn’t expecting to start right away despite the semester being more than half over. But yes, when you bring it up, it is because of Win and me meddling that she (newly-dubbed Jackrin) is staying here.

It was a big ol’ New Mexico party in Thailand, complete with beer, Bangkok, and several touristy day trips. Considering our success the New Mexican import business, we are thinking it may be a lucrative side job.