Faces of Reality

I spent several days in two refugee camps in the mountains. Nupo and Umpium camps are home to around 70,000 refugees fleeing from Burmese atrocities. They were a full few days, as I wandered around camp, met with local camp leaders, interviewed families and played social worker to complicated family and custody situations. I am so grateful for the opportunity to be a part of the story of these incredible people. Their pasts are dark, their futures uncertain, their present stagnant. But yet, life goes on - some semblance of life, anyway. They are unable to work, pursue education, their children are stateless, medical care is limited. They are hunted by their own country and not wanted by their country of asylum. All they want is to go home. But, with every day that goes by, that hope is crushed a little more. So... they sit. And wait. Get married, have babies, chew the beetlenut that stains their teeth, gossip about the neighbors, learn guitar, organize an afternoon game of football, and wait. Wait for the international community to care. For some country to stand up for their rights. Wait for the day when they can return to their homes and gardens in peace. Wait to have some sense of agency over their own lives. Wait for the day when their children don't live in fear.

Umpium Camp

Umpium Camp hospital

Bangkok Craziness - or - Why I Prefer to See Men in Skirts

I can finally join the not-so-exclusive club of now-aging GIs during leave from Vietnam, of dreadlocked hippies in search of enlightenment, of cast and filming crews for least two James Bond movies, of sex tourists, and elderly adventure tours, and college kids on spring break and middle-aged middle-class suburbanites who wanted to go somewhere 'exotic' for their two week vacation: I spent my first real weekend in Bangkok. I figured that, after 3 1/2 months of being in Thailand, it really was becoming rather embarrassing that I hadn't even seen the infamous capital. So, I decided this weekend was as good as any, and, with visions of Starbucks and Burger King dancing in my head (seriously, where do these bad hamburger longings COME from, anyway?!), I hopped on a bus and made the nine hour trip down. Ran into a bit of a snag when I discovered that Kao San Road, boasting nearly hundreds of seedy backpacker hostels, was utterly and completely filled to the bursting point. Again, I found myself at midnight, in jammed packed streets of a sprawling, massive city... homeless. I weighed the pros and cons of sleeping in the corner of one of the plenteous all-night bars with wandering the streets of Bangkok until dawn. Thankfully, I didn't have to make that decision when I found the ONLY hotel in Lonely Planet that wasn't booked and happened to have a room. The fact that it was a 30 minutes moto ride on the other side of town deterred me not in the least. By the time I checked in, after lugging my backpack around for 4 hours, I was equal parts annoyed, exhausted, and grateful.

Bangkok was funny place to be over the weekend. Still on edge after the the New Year's bombings, and because there was a holiday on Saturday, many were afraid there would be more attacks. So, to forestall would-be bomb depositors, authorities removed all of the... trashcans from the city. That's right, up and down town every street in Bangkok, tourist and residential and commercial areas alike had tidy and not-so-tidy little piles of trash lining the sidewalks because there were no trashcans anywhere to be found. It's seems like an odd - but arguably not ineffective - way of preventing bombings. As it were, there were thankfully no bombings on Saturday. The "tourist police" on the other hand (seriously, that's what their uniform says!), were quite busy wandering up and down Kao San Road busting little stands making and selling "Student ID cards! Diplomas! Visas! While U Wate". A creative idea, that. Unfortunately, the tourist police got to them before I could get that master's diploma I'd been wanting...

I went to what is possibly the most ridiculous mall in the entire world. I realize I have yet to visit every mall in the entire world, but I would bet Thai baht that this one would be in the running. It was eight (8) stories - the cinema took up two floors! It took nearly twenty minutes to make it from the top to bottom! The other floors were Versace, Armani and... KFC where I was able to eat the mashed potatoes that I have been craving forever. And an Oreo blizzard from Dairy Queen... Mmm.. There really were thousands of people at this mall - really nice looking people. The Thai have mastered the art of looking good, for sure, the women were polished and perfect, in their high heels and perfect makeup; the men in almost too preppy clothes (no man sarongs here!) and trendy hair. I felt too much like a dirty Peace Corps volunteer with duct taped sandals to be mixing with all of them. I did watch the Jennifer Connelly, Leonardo DiCaprio film "Blood Diamonds" - a disturbing look at the global diamond trade and how corrupt sellers and ignorant consumers create a market for diamonds obtained through conflict and bloodshed of the nationals from where the diamonds originate. Watch it. It will put a holy fear of diamond buying in you.

On the way out of the mall, I walked right into the middle of honest-to-goodness models in a real, live photo shoot. As much as the idea of the whole modeling scene makes me want to gag and puts me on a very tall soapbox, I have to admit that I was a bit star-struck and stood and watched for several minutes before peeling myself away.

So, upon reflection of my First Experience in the City of Angels - it's opulence, extravagance, presumption, and, yes, charm - I think I prefer a simpler life. A life without eight story shopping malls, Dolce & Gabana, Ferraris, pretension... Yes, I think I prefer gritty, authentic, little Mae Sot, with it's 3 traffic lights and four 7-11s, where men are completely content... to wear skirts.

Zipping around on a moto (not the safest idea in the world, probably)

A brief word about leg waxing in Mae Sot...

My male readers, you might as well stop reading now, especially those of you that didn't understand the title, before you conclude that the entire female sex suffers from extreme forms of masochistic inclinations. For the rest of you, may I advise against attempting to remove leg hair by waxing in Mae Sot. A veteran waxer, I don't think I have ever experienced more pain than when I made the unwise decision to walk into the little corner salon that advertised "waxe" and boldly ask that they take care of my legs. The last time (yes, it boggles the mind that there was, in fact, a last time) I attempted it here, the woman pulled out several mysterious-looking containers of what turned out to be some stronger version of Nair (there is no way the FDA has approved whatever she used), and proceeded to chemically BURN off my leg hair. My skin itself produced fumes for days afterwards... So, the second time, bolder but not necessarily wiser, I ventured into Salon #2, and inquired about hot wax. "No problem, no problem", she assured me. Smug, proud of my Thai, I rested in the chair, as I saw with satisfaction that she brought out a more appropriate-looking can of steaming wax, that she cooled by lifting and stirring with a wooden spoon. This is where the jubilation ends. Three women, and several curious onlookers crowded around me. She began slathering on the hot, sticky wax all over the top of my legs. "Umm... what are you going to pull it off with?", I asked with not a little bit of concern. No cloth. With swift jerks, two hands on each leg, they began to yank off the wax with their fingers, pulling hair and skin and top layers of bone off with it. I yelped. "Ow ow ow ow ow!!! No! You have to use little strips of CLOTH to pull it off!" "Oh...", they nodded. The elder woman said something quickly to the younger one who ran out the door with some money. "Ok," I thought, "we are getting the cloth, they just had a different technique". The other girl came back and they slathered up my legs again, then, to my horror, she produced a roll of packing tape meant to rip off the wax. "NO. WAY!" I stopped her before my legs were permanently disfigured. There was nothing left to do but re-rip off the wax AGAIN by their fingers. At this point, my hair - what hadn't been violently torn out from the roots along with all of the skin cells surrounding it - hung on in patches, with sorry bits of hardened wax stubbornly clinging to it. My red, traumatized legs and I limped out, hair and all.

I think I will go back to my trusty razor.