Hàng Ngày

When in Vietnam, people often joked about me marrying a Vietnamese guy. They would laugh at the prospect of this city girl from the US marrying a Vietnamese farmer. It was pretty much the funniest conversation topic around. “Cưới chồng Việt Nam đi, về làm ruộng!” was the mantra. Well, yesterday, these friends and neighbors would have laughed their conical hats off: I went with 12 VIA volunteers to Fair Earth Farm, owned by a friend of VIA, Jeff Rutherford, and transplanted rice seedlings.

We started the day as all farmers should, with a long ride in the back of a gray pickup truck, driven by one of the guys who works at the hostel where we are staying.

We arrived at the farm and were greeted by Jeff and a few of his neighbors/farmer friends. They explained with their limited English and our limited Thai how to take a pack of rice seedlings that had been uprooted from the starter paddy and place them into rows of four, forearm’s length apart, into the mucky paddy fields. We had to walk between the rows following our progress, slowly moving across the paddy with our backs arched and our legs knee-deep in mud. It was squishy and warm, with an occasional root or rock to look out for.

After the first round of planting we knocked off for a few hours, taking an early lunch break (10:30!) and relaxing under the shade of a tent and the longan trees. The farm has not only rice paddy but also fruit trees, hardwoods, a vegetable garden, and all kinds of flower beds. They grow fish around the edges of the rice paddy, and it is all done organically, no pesticides. I’m skeptical as to whether our rice will actually grow, seeing as we got reprimanded for not having straight rows on several occasions, although the professional farmers were quite patient with us.

By afternoon we were hot, tired, sunburned, and covered in mud. But relaxing under the tarp with the farmers, sipping juice, eating freshly picked longans, and admiring the fields, I have to say I was pretty content. I can see the appeal for “city people” to return to their roots, in a literal sense. Maybe I’ll take up agriculture after all

A bicycle. I feel that I could write an entire book full of short stories and humorous anecdotes about the mishaps and misadventures I have had while perched atop rickety, old, two-wheeled scraps of metal. Maybe I will someday. I should start taking photographs of all the ridiculous bicycles I have ridden over the past few years. It would be a one of a kind storybook, for sure.

Today I decided to rent a bicycle from the International Center, one of Chiang Mai University’s guesthouses for visitors, and the place I have been calling home for the past two weeks. I had looked at a map and seen a bright green road following the river, indicating a “country road” that seemed like it should be a pleasant place for a hot afternoon bike ride. I decided to give it a shot.

The first bike that the IC desk staff tried to rent me was a fire-engine red mountain bike which I rejected almost immediately because the seat was set for a twelve year old, or at least, not set for my extremely tall, long-legged American body. I was given a second, taller red bicycle that was covered in cobwebs. These bikes look pretty nice from a distance, but as soon as I tested it out in the parking lot, it was clear that it was a little rusty. The peddles creaked and felt a little unstable, like they were going to fall off at any moment, like my pedals on the bicycle in Hue (see former posts from July, 2007). I adjusted the brake lines a little so they would actually stop the bike, and decided to settle for this second crappy bicycle. The river was waiting!

About fifty meters out of the IC gate, before even reaching the main road, the chain popped off the bicycle for the first time. This was not a good sign. I flipped the bike over, replaced the chain, and fiddled with the gears a bit to make the chain stay on. It worked for a while, and I was on my way down the main road towards the old city, around the outer walls, and almost to the river when the chain popped off again. Again, I slowed to a stop, flipped the bike, and replaced the chain. This time I got a curious older man to assist me by telling me I needed to put the chain back on (from what I gathered in Thai, which I don’t understand). I kept going, but the chain popping got more frequent until I couldn’t pedal more than five feet without the chain coming off. A piece of plastic that seemed to be holding the chain on fell off at this point as well.

I stopped at a banana stand (I happened to be in a market area) and asked by pointing to the chain, cocking my head to the side in “confusion” and fanning my hand around the area in an open gesture to ask “where can I find a place to fix this?” They didn’t know, and I didn’t wait to answer as we were quickly being taken over by a power-washing hose coming down the street that didn’t seem to care anything for pedestrians and bikers in its path. I asked at another banana stand around the corner, and this time began to make some progress, and gather a crowd. People from the three surrounding stands gathered around and made motions for me to go to the next stoplight and take a right, splitting their sides with laughter the entire time. I admit it was probably a pretty humorous scene: foreign woman who doesn’t speak Thai wearing a giant-brimmed hat and walking this fire-engine red bicycle down the street. I was laughing too.

I walked the bike in the direction they’d pointed, and of course, it started to sprinkle. Just what I need, I thought, a nice rain to cool me off and wash away some of the sweat from my neck and bicycle grease from my hands. I wasn’t finding this bike shop, and it had been a while, so I crossed the street to what looked like some sort of mechanic/machinery shop.

It was in fact a lawnmower store, full of brand new lawnmowers in various bright colors. I asked with my gestures if they knew where I could fix my bicycle chain. They laughed as well, and one guy got out some pliers, flipped my bike, and put the chain back on. I watched with amusement as he proceeded to spin the tires, indicating that it was fixed (“you moron American woman, don’t you even know how to fix a popped bike chain?”) As he was spinning the tires, the chain popped again and he realized it might need a little more work. I think all it needed was a little banging with a heavy hammer on the big gear attached to the pedal. Instead, this guy began dismantling the pedals, screws, small metal balls, and washers falling to the ground. It began to rain, pour in fact, and here I was in Chiang Mai’s Chinatown, with a lawnmower repairman taking apart a bicycle that wasn’t mine while I watched and wondered if he actually knew what he was doing. I helped a little by holding some of the greasy, rusting pieces and stabilizing the bike while he worked. Every once and a while he’d look over at me and give me this big grin, like he was having a really fun time playing with my bike.

I sat for nearly forty-five minutes while he cleaned and re-greased the screws, ball-bearings, and washers inside the pedal mechanism, banged them back together, and re-attached the pedals. It still didn’t work. He then did what I think was needed all along: he took a hammer and made a few swift blows to the gear that holds the chain, and finally put the chain back on. One of his buddies gave it a test drive down the block and back, and decided that the pedals were still a little rickety. They both laughed at this, off the pedals came again, and more banging ensued. Finally, after the second reassembly of the pedals, I was set to go. I asked how much and he told me “mai pen rai,” which means “no problem” in Thai. He grinned widely at me. I had no idea how to respond, or what to do. I tried to give him money and he refused, saying again, “mai pen rai.” I thanked him, smiled back, and was on my way.

I was very close to the river, and decided to keep to my course, despite the fact that I’d lost about an hour with this chain dilemma. About five minutes after I left the lawnmower shop, the chain popped off the bike again. Damnit. I put it back on, hoping it was just a fluke. I reached the river a few minutes later, and it was just as beautiful as I’d hoped: a narrow country road, with water on one side and little shops and homes on the other side. As I admired the scenery, the chain popped off again. It was getting to the point of not being funny anymore. I was pretty far from home. I decided to give it one more go. Three minutes later, the chain popped again, and I decided it was safest to head back to IC. I was still really far away, and I didn’t want to be stuck. I turned around and enjoyed the short stretch of river again before returning to the road that rounds the old city. This road is busy: three lanes of car and motorbike traffic, with almost no break between the waves of them. The chain popped off several times, and I replaced it each time. They were getting closer and closer together. Finally, as I limped past the famous Thapae gate, the chain gave it’s final gasp, and there was nothing I could do to get it to stay on for more than one revolution of my pedal. I was clear on the other side of the old town, six or seven kilometers from IC. I started walking.

I walked that damn bike for an hour and a half, through quiet old-city streets, and across two major thoroughfares where I nearly lost my life. I lugged it up curbs and down, I walked in the street, I walked on the sidewalk. I had one girl on a bicycle look at me with pity, slow her bike, and point to my chain, evidently asking if I wanted her to fix it. I gave the wavering-hand gesture that indicates “no thanks” or “not possible” and she smiled and continued on her way. I sucked down so much exhaust that I thought I was going to pass out cold or start tripping out right there on the street. When I finally reached IC I was drenched in sweat, covered in bike grease, smelling like car fumes, and nearly delirious with exhaustion. I walked into the IC reception area and told them that the bike was broken and they should probably fix it before they rented it out to someone again. The guy behind the desk smiled sheepishly and said, “ok, free for you.” The next time someone asks about “cheap thrills” I’ll suggest going for a hot afternoon ride on a janky bicycle in a foreign country where you don’t know the language.

I have been here only a week and already the “mai pen rai” attitude, the relaxed atmosphere, the heat and humidity, the smell of ripe fruit and frying noodles on the street has seeped back into my pores. As soon as I stepped out of the airport into the thick, heavy Chiang Mai afternoon air, my stress level decreased by about 46%. Being in Thailand for the second time around, but this time in a much different role and place in my life, I feel a combination of nostalgia for the people who were part of my life here two years ago and appreciation for how much I have grown and changed in such a short period of time.

The only time I’ve really had to myself so far has been the precious hour stolen for a morning run. As the sun is coming up each morning, I lace up my shoes and head out to the Chiang Mai University campus, running through quiet alleyways (a rarity in Southeast Asia) with the mountains in my view ahead. School is out for the summer, and the campus is absolutely deserted. I revel in the relative silence, the sounds of monks dressed in their orange robes chanting outside the university gates a soft reminder that I am not in fact the only one awake at this hour.

Chiang Mai during the rainy season is a lush oasis of tropical plants, a deep vibrant green color, with the smell of fresh rain hanging on every leaf. The smell fills my lungs just as the sound of the monks chants fill my ears, and I feel that every worry and concern I have had about visas, about insurance documents, about training materials, about program participants seeps out of my pores with the beads of sweat, roles down the side of my face, and falls to the ground behind my pounding feet.

It’s so different from New York, the frantic hustle of millions of individuals with individual ambitions that makes me giddy with excitement and energy. And yet I feel that being here I am instantly healthier, mentally and physically, than I can ever be in that world of constant stimulation, action, and motion. Coming to Chiang Mai is for me like taking a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs, holding it for several seconds, and releasing everything that I have been bottling inside for the past five months.

Be back August 18th. I don’t even know how to describe my thoughts and emotions right now, because I can’t really decipher them for myself. I am excited for this new phase of my job and life. I am nervous that I am going to forget something/screw up/be lame at my job. I am curious what adventures may ensue in the coming weeks, and my favorite emotion of all, I am “expectant” for seeing my friends again (gotta love the directly translated emotions). I hope I didn’t forget all of my Vietnamese.

Echoing Eric’s words, I write lines of nothingness, with no meaning, trying to appease the gods of loneliness, insanity, wrecklesness? I’m not exactly sure. But I DO know that I haven’t slept in several days, be it because of too much caffeine after noontime (two days ago), running for a long time in the evening (yesterday), or singing karaoke, recalling nostaligic moments, and biking home late at night drunk as a fratboy (tonight). No matter what, I know for sure that the physical and mental health I felt a few weeks ago has been disrupted by this self-deprecating cycle of waking sleepless-night, cloudy morning, sleepless night, restless dream, caffeine overdose, sleepless night, and hopefully (next week? August, when I get to Vietnam?) blissful rest and relaxation.

Every morning I walk by piles of homeless people hunched over in convenience store doorways. Some are surrounded by jumbled piles of beer and liquor bottles, their pants stained with sweat and street-dirt sagging way too low on their waists. Others are bundled in blankets, sleeping bags, spare jackets, and plastic bags, huddled together in slumber, protecting each other from the chilly morning breeze.

I wonder when I see these clumps of human life wasting away on the pavement: What happened that they have reached this state of inhumanity? But lately I have been thinking that maybe the better question to ask is: why is this state, in my eyes, inhumanity? How has our society defined the poor to make them outside of civilization, even inhuman at times so that pedestrians walk by without a nod, a smile, or even a glance on their ways to work and play?

One thing I have noticed, in trying to answer this question, is that I have a lodged deep within me a fear of poverty and the poor that it is difficult for me to overcome when I want to see the homeless as human. I am afraid, what am I afraid of? I am afraid that they will ask me for money if I get too friendly with them; and if they ask me for money I will inevitably say no, or even yes, but no matter what I say, I will feel guilty. That senseless guilty gut reaction of a middle-class American with Christian values instilled deep in her spirit despite her lack of religious practice.

As I write this piece, I am listening to a song called “Homeless Man,” by Blue Highway. (Yes, I have become a shameless folk/country fan since returning from Vietnam. I miss Eric’s guitar, Minh’s violin, and Jenna’s rich alto by my side. Check out www.folkalley.com)

But why? My favorite question to ask my students, and naturally myself, leads to an angry realization that I have probably been taught by my society to fear the poor. The poor and homeless have been painted in an image of crime, drug addiction, and sloth so that those who complacently follow the “natural” path of society, or who have the privilege of being born into a family with stable income and principles see the poor as other. They are not “us,” they don’t work hard, they don’t try, and they are a waste of human space. I wonder, if we examine drug addiction, alcoholism, or depression among those with money, do we condemn people as lazy, useless, or inhuman? I think not, seeing as how rampant these forms of “mental illness” are in our society. However, I know from readings during college and news magazines in the past few years that “mental illness” and homelessness/poverty are highly correlated. Why? Is it because mental illness leads to economic hardship, as many will claim? Or is it in fact because we have constructed poverty and mental illness in tandem with each other: those who are homeless, poor, raving on the streets about their plight (or not raving and simply smiling at passersby) must be mad. How else could they be saying such things about the state and how the state has treated them? How else could they speak in a way that strikes fear in the hearts of ordinary pedestrians? Or maybe, just maybe, our ideas of poverty have been created to keep those who are outside of mainstream society at bay, economically powerless, and therefore politically incapacitated. I know it may sound like “crazy talk,” but what if instead of looking at the individuals on the street we instead examined the framework of our society that allows, indeed endeavors, to let these people “slip through the cracks” as inhuman?

In his essay, “Why I Write,” George Orwell elaborates on what he believes to be the essence of British culture and society. As America is a child of Britain, albeit an ornary one, it would be fair to assume that American shares many characteristics with its mother across the sea. This may in fact be true, and in reading Orwell’s words I did in fact find some lines that resonated with my own sense of identity as an American. Many of his words, however, were merely that: words on paper, crafting a nice melody, but not a melody which caused my spine to tingle in tune with the music. It made me think about what it means to be an American, in this time period (because obviously I have no knowledge from experiencing another time period as an adult). I tried to continue reading Orwell’s story, but found myself utterly distracted by the questions his words raised in my mind. What does it really mean to be an American? What is the essence of American society? Of American politics? What does it mean for a young, white American woman to be a “patriot” in 2008?

To the first two questions I have devoted much time and energy, and indeed the answer to the first question is essential to my line of work. As a teacher in a rural part of Vietnam, with few other foreign compatriots, I was often confronted with a question to the effect of, “What is important to Americans?” The question was not often offered in its rhetorical form, but more as a statement, an accusation, or a truism: “Americans value independence. Vietnamese value family.” Or one of my favorites, “When you go to visit Americans, don’t go without calling first. Americans value their privacy.”

To such statements or inquiries about my culture, I initially felt defensive, and later on was amused by the people who threw such statements my way. Defensive because I immediately wanted to debunk the myth than any one culture can be boiled down to simple statements or generalizations. America is a mosaic, an ever-increasingly complicated mix of opinions and rituals, each one just as valuable as the next. I wanted to tell my students that the essence of America is that it is impossible to categorize: the diversity is too great to fit into one compact box. The amusement came after a few rounds of this question and answer series, when I gave up trying to defend my self-righteous sense of American diversity and instead self-righteously laughed at the fact that so many people could be so ignorant about my country, what with the amount of media and information streaming across the transnational highway that is the internet. But who can blame them, really, when at least three quarters of this information is sensational garbage exported to numb the minds of the international populace as it has the American populace?

Despite the many conversations I have had with students, colleagues, and friends about the essence of American culture, the soul of this nation, I think that my desire to show people the vastness and complexity of American has impeded my ability to really think deeply about the question. Maybe I should start with my reaction to the question in the first place: my desire to rebut the claim that American can be pared down to a set of core characteristics. I have met other Americans with the same desire. I remember a particular slogan of my alternative, experimental, revolutionary private elementary school in St. Louis, Missouri:

“Label Jars, Not People.”

Conversations of late with a good friend who is working in Vietnam have made me think again about this statement, and how unique it is, but essential to many Americans (note my reluctance to say “all Americans”!) The concept that I should be appreciated for my ideas, my values, what I do, and what I accomplish, as opposed to how I appear to outsiders, how I dress, how much money I make, or what my skin color is, is something essentially American. Many of my nation’s most fundamental human rights and civil liberties movements have adopted such a mantra. Martin Luther King awaited the day when his fellow Americans would be judged “not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” Feminists everywhere will tell you that one of the foundations of interpreting history and society from their perspective is to raise the voices of women as individuals in their own rights, as opposed to “people” who are inherently male. The struggle to attain equal rights is in essence the desire to be seen as individuals with individual values, life pursuits, and decision-making power. I think the simple categorization of Americans as “individualist” misses the point. Maybe it’s simply because this word has been conflated with an individual sense of arrogance and an anti-social desire to distance oneself from one’s peers. Individualism, to me, and what I think it means to America, is the desire to be valued for one’s character, and recognized for and judged by one’s deeds. This is not necessarily a paramount value in other parts of the world as it is in America.