Floating Light

As a lunar holiday, Loy Krathong typically falls sometime in November. Last year, oblivious to the fact that it was a holiday weekend, we went to Surin in northeast Thailand for their annual Elephant Roundup, effectively missing Loy Krathong entirely. This year, we were more prepared.

Loy Krathong is Thailand’s equivalent to a festival of lights. “Loy” means “to float.” And “Krathong” refers to homemade floats that carry a candle. A traditional Krathong is made from a cross-section of banana tree trunk elaborately decorated with strips of banana leaf and the decapitated heads of flowers, painstakingly twisted, twirled, stapled and pinned.

During November’s full moon, the krathongs are taken to the local river and loy-ed. Symbolically, the light from the candle is meant to honor Buddha, and the krathong carries away all grudges, mistakes, and negativity. Loy Krathong is a holiday of letting go, of new beginnings.

Over the years, the holiday has been augmented, and the beloved Thai lanterns (kohms) included. Kohms, made from tissue or rice paper, are like miniaturized hot air balloons, using the heat from a burning ring of oiled paper to lift up and away from earth.

From the banks of Chiang Rai’s Kok River, krathongs drifted downstream, kohms floated off by the hundreds, boyant and glowing. The sky was full of false constellations that shift and change with the wind. Fireworks burst overhead, close enough to rain paper on our shoulders.

As the kohm began to glow brighter, hotter, we shifted our grip from top to bottom. Suddenly, as if of its own accord, the lantern tugged itself free of our fingertips, slipping away to join the school of glowing lantern jellyfish, easing their way heavenward. With it, all mistakes and negative energy, leaving us cleansed.

Time Difference

Why are there stuffed crocodiles on top of every car in the parking lot? Why has that man walked a half a block along the telephone lines? How do you fit six people on a motorbike? Why do none of the clocks say the same time?

It’s been just over five months since we moved to Thailand, and I find myself questioning what is happening on a regular basis. Five months ---various cultural surprises (some pleasant, others less so), a finished first semester, a full year’s worth of illnesses (on my part), two thousand students, three pregnant stray animals, bug bites by the hundreds, a dozen new friends, one catastrophic elephant ride, a whole heap of bruises --- and here we are. During this time I have struggled, much more than Win, with the lack of planning, the disregard for punctuality, and what I saw as general confusion.

We go to school the first week and learn we have no students Friday. We show up to school and find out we have short classes for Sports Day. We show up the next day and find out Sports Day is next week, so it will be short classes until then. We arrive on Tuesday and are told that, no, today will be Friday classes. Half day Friday. No, Thursday and Friday. First period is a concert, last period is first. All last minute, day of. No calendar, scrap the lesson plans.

In a parade for Father’s Day (King’s Day) having the foreign teachers come is an honor, so we went. After an hour and a half of getting all of the individual school lined up, teachers donning pink or yellow, and the bands ready to lead, color guards in spandex and neon, drum majors in heels and cowboy hats, we were ready to go. We then walked several kilometers through barren parts of town at dusk on streets that hadn’t been cordoned-off and to the delight of no spectators, all while carrying cardboard cutouts of the King.

In attempting to book an elephant trekking tour we settled on the jungle trek instead when the elephants were all booked. We assumed that the two treks were different and separate. The assumption resulted in a five-minute hike through the jungle, first crossing a river, then clambering up an ant-covered embankment, climbing an ant-covered ladder, crossing back over the same river (more ants), and falling in line behind the elephants to finish our trek. We dodged mounds of elephant poo and crossed rivers in water up to our armpits, bags held overhead. All this while the Thai families sat comfortably atop elephants, shaded by umbrellas, dry and unharmed by ants.

We go to a restaurant and get a menu all in Thai, so we just point at something and hope for the best.  The best instance resulting in stir fried veggies when I was feeling nutrient-depleted; the worst, rice gruel with a raw egg at the bottom and spare parts soup, complete with grey meat, tripe, liver, and various other indistinguishables. We go to a restaurant, try to order food in general and are told “Mai Mi,” no have. No have food? No have cook? We don’t know, but they don’t have something. We show up at one of three border crossings to get into Burma/Myanmar, “Cannot.” Why? “Burma is closed to you. Open Thai Burma only.”

Five months of nothing going according to plan, but here we are. And I have become much more adaptable and easy-going. There was little choice. We live on Thai Time. Things happen when they happen, and always somehow work out. When we don’t understand each other we smile and shrug. A smile goes a very long way. A good sense of humor goes even farther.