It was an unfamiliar sound I woke up to this morning. A human voice, a melodic verse, yes. But was it comprised of words? Perhaps an incantation? It will take a more ambitious morning to find
those answers. To be certain, it was
coming from the high school. Where it
lacks in aesthetic qualities, it suffices in its auditory pleasures. This, despite the sounds prevailing at an
ungodly hour of the morning.
While the high school itself possesses a rudimentary and
institutional front, it epitomizes Thailand.
Modernization simply cannot be found, and in a sense, maybe that is
good. There is something nostalgic about
watching children ascend cracked wooden steps and mosey through the outdoor
wooden corridors, a pair of leather shoes in their grasp.
It was a desperate, yet futile attempt to return to my
euphoric state of sleep. A mob of stray
and owned dogs arrived at a disagreement at a nearby house and the bickering
that ensued proved impossible to disregard.
The temperature was mildly acceptable; it was warmer in the house than
outside. But the light. Ah, the light. Yes, it was settled; the day simply will not
cheat me. If the town is awake, so am I.
And so I gallantly rose from the concrete slab I reside on
for five hours each night. Unfortunately,
the trek from bedroom to bathroom, which, interestingly, can only be accessed
through the kitchen, was not so spirited.
My lead topped eyes did not agree with being open. Had there been furniture – any furniture – in
my living room, it would still be sore from knocking into my shins.
In many cultures, it takes a good minute to allow running
water to reach a warm, comfortable temperature.
Here, one will impoverish the town’s supply of water, and accrue an
impressive water bill – even by Western standards – waiting for such an
occurrence. Hot water is a luxury
nowhere to be found for many a kilometer.
For spoiled folk, cold showers are not an easy adaptation. Quick, perhaps. But not easy.
I had a friend today, and took some comfort in my first morning shower with
companionship. However, he took little,
if any notice of me. It was the trail of
microscopic ants leading up the corner crevice of my shower stall that caught his eye. And as he scurried closer and closer to them,
defying gravity with glue-like feet, his long olive green body vanished into an
otherwise unbeknownst sector of the corner of the wall. I shut the water off.
My stomach longed for a meal. Wheat bread, oatmeal, and bananas would
pleasantly suffice. What a
disappointment, then, to realize that even ants need food. My counter was serving as a buffet for even
earlier risers than I. The bread seemed
to move, and of course, many were enjoying dessert first as well. Hundreds of these six-legged
insects crawled up, down, sideways, and diagonally on the surfaces of my only
source of fruit. My first thought was to
respray the kitchen counter with insecticide.
I had been outsmarted. Even the
can was held captive by these seemingly immune critters. With sixteen minutes to transform my
towel-wrapped self into a presentable schoolteacher, tie and all, I simply had
no time to rectify the situation.
Moisture consumes the air, and there is simply no way around it. Riding the motorbike a grand distance of a third of a kilometer provokes my sweat glands. By the time I have parked, walked to the office to sign in, and proceeded to the coffee shop, the freshness of my morning shower has long dissipated. But after thirty-five baht, some translation difficulties, and nearly ten minutes of waiting, I am equipped with my vitalizer. Cah-fey yin, or iced coffee, is quite the concoction. A cappuccino mix and what appears to be equal mixtures of evaporated and sweetened condensed milk is the perfect blend of strong and sweet. Every morning at eight, the students are immersed in the singing of the national anthem and an assembly, much like the morning announcements at any other high school. I believe this to be given by the director through use of a megaphone. This theory will be tested at a later date.
The teachers’ ‘lounge’ is indoors, to be technical. But it has an open entrance and the ceiling
fans barely lessen the severity of the heat and humidity. The computers are in Thai and the wired connection
is hit or miss. Hours upon hours are
spent in the dungeon reading curriculum and researching activities to do in
future lessons. Inconclusive.
So I sit and think sometimes. I am here to teach. I am here to learn. I wonder, can there be one without the other? My conscience chuckled as I realized the
distinct possibility of learning more than my students. After all, I see ‘them’ twelve times this
week, soon to be more. But ‘they’ see me
once: each class meets with each English
teacher once per week. As the beads, or
streams, of sweat crash down my forehead, neck, arms, and torso, it is easy to step
into class prepared to lecture, read from books, or train robots. No. Be
enthusiastic! Engage and be engaging. Turn a self-introductory lesson into a
game. Crumple up a piece of paper. Throw it around the class. Make them speak to me. Make them speak to each other. Play duck-duck-goose. Sing the alphabet song. Butcher names. Does it really matter WHAT they say? No. I
am here to teach. They are here to
learn. Those who want to, will.
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