Kornography

In today’s increasingly globalized—and thus shrinking—world, I am always excited to be exposed to things that I not only haven’t seen/tasted/done before, but things that I never even knew existed. With some things—food, or card games for example—there are seemingly infinite variations, so it is therefore to be expected that one will encounter something of which one was previously 100% ignorant—e.g. Burmese fermented tea leaf salad, or “say eight, say nine”, a Thai variation of Baccarat—but there are other categories, which for whatever reason are more finite, and it is the moment of discovery of something totally new within these, that I truly relish (I remember rushing to Wikipedia half way through the Olympic opening ceremonies when a single proud athlete marched under the flag of Nauru). That is why my discovery of takraw, a sport completely novel to my consciousness, was such a big deal. (more…)

I finally got to go to the Shan refugee camp, a place I had been hearing a lot about, and was really looking forward to visiting. (the area that I was in borders Burma, but more technically it abuts Shan State: within Burma there are different ethnic states, most of which are in some state of fighting for their independence, to which Shan state has perhaps the best case) Me and Meeber went on separate motorbikes, and upon arriving first, I was greeted warmly by the leader of the camp (the same man, I quickly realized, who Meeber had been telling me about). He rushed to get chairs (the customary plastic mold in primary colors that is ubiquitous in Thailand) and arranged them on the corner of an old metal table, left outside for many rainy seasons, with a rainbow of rusts half consuming the words ‘Rotary International.’ A boy emerged from inside with glasses and weak green tea. Within a minute, it became clear that he had no real idea of who I was, or why I had come, and although Meeber had been here a number of times—apparently never in an official capacity—he didn’t recognize the name of my organization when I offered it. Instead he saw someone who had specifically come to his camp—a process of navigating a pitched and pot-holed gravel track on a motorbike for about an hour—and welcomed him with open arms. (more…)