Tripping Through Thailand

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But by the time you get there everyone is laughing. Two guys are picking themselves up off the pavement. Strangers. Shit-faced. They skidded on the wet pavement, lost control. They're fine. Everyone is slapping each other on the back, speaking rapidly in Thai.

You try to smile. Gee takes your hand, which is still shaking, and walks you back to the bar. 'No problem, na?' he says. 'No problem, mai pen lai.'

Wish you could take life so lightly. Instead, wait anxiously for the whiskey to return, and drink gratefully when it does.

August: Joy
Still raining. Everything is beautiful--lush and green. You go to markets packed with people and pick up vegetables with wet hands. On your motorbike, rush through narrow streets, your blue plastic poncho flying out behind you, your feet lifting high off the pedals as you pass through puddles.

One of your students, Kyi Mar, tells you about a village in Burma that was flooded last week. When the rains came the villagers ran for the hills, taking nothing with them. They waited days, returning only when the gushing slowed to a trickle. Their houses were destroyed. You start to sympathize before you notice that Kyi Mar is smiling. She tells you it's OK, that on their return the villagers found their small fortunes intact, because their pigs were spotted sleeping peacefully in the branches of the treetops. The rising water had taken them there. Let yourself be awed.

September: Ghosts
One night you dream about the migrant workers. The six charred bodies of Burmese laborers found in Mae Pa, murdered by their Thai boss when they asked for their wages. In your dream they sit up holding copies of your report, flip through its pages, look for their names. Bits of their hands fall off and fly away like moths. You wake up screaming.

Stumble out of your mosquito net and downstairs to make coffee. You can't forget that Mae Pa is only four hours away. That this suffering is real. Cry while the water boils. Then sit. Sip your coffee. Listen to the rain. Look at the stacks of research piled on your table, curling at the edges from the damp. So much to read, so much to learn, so much to document. Doubt that any of it helps.

The geckos on the kitchen rafters are getting enormous from all the moths and beetles they've been eating. Envy their clarity of purpose, the direct results. Wish for the thousandth time that you were a carpenter.

October: Morning
You wake up in your jungle house. The sun turns your kitchen orange, licking the stairs with its morning tongue, leaving its traces across the wooden beams, splotches of sun on the floors and ceiling. Finally, sun.

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