joi to the world

It seems appropriate at this time of year-- when talk of holiday cheer and joy is abundant--to talk about the Joi in my life: my housemate. Though I’ve mentioned her previously, she really does deserve an entry of her own. Her personality and life are worthy of a reality TV show: she had a baby 7 months ago who lives with her parents in her hometown, an ex-husband who is trying to get her back, a boyfriend who is a musician, but only plays music in Hong Kong, and an obsession with Thai soap operas, belt making and all that is Isaan. Despite these, uhh, differences, Joi has managed, somehow, in her hilarious, easy-going and kind way, to make my life here in Warinchamrap feel exponentially safer, happier and more comfortable.

On my first night in Warinchamrap, after an exhausting day of 3-am wake-ups, moving-in, and trying not to cry about the place I was moving into, I came back to my new room to find a lovely, lovely surprise-- a foot longtokay had crawled through the gap above my door and sat its blue behind and beady eyes on my wall.

As most would probably do, I freaked the hell out and screamed for the roommate I had met just minutes prior. "JOOII!! JOOOII!!!!! JOOIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!" rattled our paper-thin walls as I frantically ran into her room, dragged her out of bed, and into my room to show her the freakish monster on my wall.

She took one look at it and then at me, her new, crazed, jumping, screaming, English-squawking housemate and stared for a good minute. "Huh?" her face read, "what the hell are you so worked up about?" Turns out that tokays are all over the place here-- a sight that I have gotten very used to-- and for Joi, who grew up in a small fisherman's town on the border of Laos, this little guy was barely of note, let alone something worth trying to chase out of a room. But after that solid minute of taking me in, she realized that my unadulterated fear could only mean that I had never seen one of those run-of-the-mill geckos before. She stammered, wide-eyed,"No.. tokay...(waved hand backwards to signal before)?"

I turned red, laughed, shook my head, and continued to jump up and down. And Joi, oh lovely Joi, promptly responded to my head shake by first laughing, and then picking up a broom and to shoo it-- and me-- away.

The tokay took off running through my room, first dashing into my closet, and then finding asylum in my newly unpacked clothes. We finally did get it out, though, and we managed to have our first big laugh together, too.

There have been countless moments like this with Joi—as I write this I am reminded of more and more--when her efforts and kindness have diffused a situation that would have felt otherwise unmanageable and overwhelming. She is patient with my Thai and is making huge improvements in her English (our conversations now consist of 3 or 4 word sentences!); I help her make these awesome, beaded belts that she sells at Big C (Thai equivalent of Walmart), and try to help her through her boy troubles (which she has a lot of); she invites me out with the other young staffers, takes me to dinner and even takes me shopping. She’s a wild one by Thai standards, but a kind, generous one by mine. Who knew you could glean so much by talking through a dictionary?

And so, reader, to end this sappy blog post I say: Joi to the world for awesome Thai roommates and friendships in unexpected places.

Happy holidays!

Love

Anna

and up-country life begins

Now let me explain myself: my negligent blogging habits have roots in two semi-legitimate factors. The first is, admittedly, laziness. There is really no excuse for this one. The second is, I think, a bit more justifiable: I just do not want this blog to become an outlet for my emotional ups and downs during this adjustment period. It is in the low moments that I feel most inclined to blog, to reach out into the depths of cyberspace and connect with people who are not here, who speak English and who too will see life here through a foreigners lens. But really, writing at those times would give you an unfair picture of what my life is like here. My life here in Warinchamrap is often (very often) mind-bogglingly frustrating, isolating and difficult. But it is equally exciting, fulfilling and awe-inspiring. I am challenged everyday by one thing or another—“Oh, only 4 out of 45 students are going to show up today?” “What do you mean its 95 degrees and considered the cool season?” “ANOTHER ant infestation????”—but very rarely do I find myself wishing I was somewhere else or doing something else. I am conscious of the fact that these daily challenges are also making me braver and stronger, and a far better non-verbal communicator than I ever thought I could be.

I live in the outskirts of the town of Warinchamrap, a suburb of the somewhat sprawling city of Ubon Ratchathani, in the northeastern part of Thailand (the Isaan region). The province sits adjacent to the borders of Laos and Cambodia, making for a cultural hodgepodge of food and language; the people around me all speak Thai and Laos, cook Thai and Laos food, and are unbelievably proud of their geographical roots. “This Isaan food!” I am often told. “You find it all over Isaan, but most famous in Ubon.” My hysterical, unpredictable Thai housemate, Joi, adamantly hates any food that is not from Isaan, shaking her head with a puckered expression anytime I suggest she try the American food I bring back from Bangkok.


This pride in local heritage comes with a genuine, inherent desire to share it with anyone who is interested in learning. Fortunately for me, this learning process brings with it massive quantities of delicious food and kind, tender people. I am repeatedly awe-struck by the intrinsic generosity and thoughtfulness of the people around me, from the women in my office, to the women I talk to at flag pole, to Joi, to the shop owner down the street. Despite the fact that we often can’t communicate in full sentences, I am constantly given food, invited out to meals, on camping trips and to family events; I’ll come back from lunch to find that someone has put a cha-yenn (Thai iced tea) on my desk, or has cooked me extra food because they thought it might be something I haven’t yet tried, or has brought me bananas from the grove in their backyard because they know how much I love bananas here. And far more often than not, these gifts are not given because something is wanted or expected in return, but rather because, simply, the giver just thought I might like it. And this spirit of anonymous, selfless giving has made me want to give back to them in the same way, to pay attention to the details of their lives too.

This is not to say that things here aren't incredibly trying. Less than half of my students will show up to any given class, and about half of those will show up twenty minutes late. The level of their speaking and listening skills continues to amaze me-- it is just so low, I'm often not sure where to start. But I am learning where to start... even if it often feels like it's at a snail's pace, going five steps forward, and then three steps back. I really do love my students, though; I find their obsession with Korean pop music fascinating, their accents endearing and their kind hearts (jai dee) encouraging. The fact that I can't verbally communicate with anyone around here on a deep emotional or intellectual level has also been quite a change from my home life and my life at Kenyon, and has undoubtedly been the most difficult aspect of my experience. Guess I'm going to have to start studying Thai, eh?

So, while it has definitely been a month of ups and downs, the good news is that-- surprise!-- everything really does pass, and the ups do always seem to come. I feel truly lucky to be here, breathing in the provincial Thai air, waking up to roosters in the morning, standing in front of a classroom of giggling faces and eating spicy, pungent Isaan food every day.

Thanks for the read and I'm sorry for the novella-length post. I miss you all!!


Lots and lots of love coming your way--


Anna