Kornography

“Maybe I should drive,” I said, as images of the terrifying plunge down cliff-hugging dirt roads the night before intercut with Khru Yay leisurely tipping glasses of Karen moonshine down his throat the previous afternoon flashed through my head, not thinking there was any chance of him surrendering his keys.

To my utter disbelief, and faster than I imagined the words could permeate his once again rice-whiskey-soaked mind, a smile broke across his face and he tossed me his keys. I had wanted to drive his truck for some time, nicknamed “The Elephant”, it tore through both foot-deep clay-turned-quicksand and the rock-hard ruts left by that same clay baked in a sun-powered kiln until it reached a consistency resembling concrete. Mounting my stead (or more literally, getting behind the wheel) I headed off back home, concluding another great week spent in the jungle.

On previous trips, I continually oscillated between awe and apoplexy as my view shifted from the unbelievable vistas of jungle-fringed valleys that seemed to extend indefinitely, and the winding, blind-turn addled, sometimes washed-out road the clung to the edges of the precipice. In the dark, one could easily treat the darkness as the unknown and thus remain indifferent to it, but at the wheel, I could not help from imagining the sheer rock faces that I knew lurked mere feet from my tires. (more…)

A friend and colleague of mine has begun spending his weeks(mon-fri) a few hours outside of the city, in the mountains of Mae Hong Son, teaching at a small local school surrounded by jungle. A hippie at heart, the return to a more simple way of life is undoubtedly part of what attracts him to this place, not to mention the opportunity to teach the students about building and playing traditional Thai instruments. After repeated requests to come and help him out with his English classes–foisted upon him due to the fact that his limited grasp of the language far exceeded those of the other teachers–I finally accepted, and spent the week up there, living in the way of the countryside, drinking rain water, playing soccer at dusk with the other teachers, eating well, and sleeping deeply in the clean mountain air.

students showing off their low-tech pinwheels –leaves on twigs– at the edge of a precipitous drop to the jungle valley below the school.
(more…)

These are from a ceremony where little boys become monks. For three days these 89 boys were lavished with gifts, and food and were carried around on the shoulders of their family members–never to have their little feet touch the ground. A whole series of roofed and elaborately decorated raised platforms–for dressing, sleeping, playing, storage, etc.–were erected in a U around a stage on which musicians, dancers, actors and comedians entertained literally all night long, to an amazingly engaged and attentive audience of hundreds upon hundreds of people. I was invited by the mother of one of my students, a 13 year old boy who–unlike many of the other boys who were only becoming monks for a few weeks in order to make merit, was planning on donning the robes for years, so as to be able to continue his education.

While there I was also able to spend time with a community leader with whom I had often worked (frequently over a bottle, or two, of rice whiskey) and another one of my students, who was the senior monk organizing the proceedings. Farming families save up money for years to pay for their sons to complete this honor, whose price tag–including multiple hand-made highly ornamented costumes (made by another one of my students, the local tailor), extensive decorations, countless cases of soda, and enough food to feed all of the extended family who come and stay for the whole three days–must be astronomical. I will never get the repetitive beat of the Shan drum and cymbals out of my brain; the music that brought men to dance in circles with costumed little boys on their shoulders.

One of the oft-overlooked benefits of living on the other side of the world, in a culture different from your own, is the ability to time travel. Here I am not talking about the whimsical 12 hour difference from home, that allows me to speak with my mom when she is going to bed and I am just waking up—truthfully not an entirely novel concept—nor the experience of being in a bamboo hut without electricity or running water, hours from a paved road. What is truly remarkable, is while on the other end of the line, mom is existing in 2007, thanks to a wrinkle in the space-time continuum, I am currently enjoying the benefits of 2550. (more…)