CIEE Khon Kaen Newsletter--2009--SP--No. 1

Benyangai PostCIEE THAILAND SPRING 2009 ORIENTATION NEWSLETTER February 11, 2009Volume IX Issue 1

After five intensive Thai lessons, drilling useful phrases like “My name is Mikaela” and “I raise cattle,” I felt pretty solid in my Thai language abilities. Granted, my accent had yet to be perfected. The sheer

miracle that I could repeat previously cryptic phrases – if only at a tenth of the speed of a normal Thai person – was very thrilling. However, come homestay time, reality set in. I successfully greeted my host family with an over pronounced “Sa-wut-DEE-ka.” But when I ventured to ask my host-mother’s occupation, I realized that unless she was a doctor or a policewoman, I would not understand her response. She was not a doctor or a policewoman. After I had exhausted my limited vocabulary, it was frustrating not being able to respond to their questions. We attempted translating with a dictionary to get the essentials across, but both depth and length of conversation are limited in this form. So I smiled and observed. At dinner, I pointed to dishes and asked, “Pet?” [spicy]. Without fail, they would respond, “Mai pet, mai pet” [not spicy], and steam would whistle from my ears. Something was lost in translation. After dinner the first night, I plopped down next to my host-sister on the king size mattress in front of

the TV. My little host sister, Faun, was watching music videos, flipping channels between Thai and English. When Beyoncé entered the screen shaking those hips to her new release, “Single Ladies,” Faun got up and started dancing along. Let me tell you, that girl’s got groove. I got up and started dancing around the room, too. She busted a Beyoncé move. Laughing, I followed her lead. I then improvised some ridiculous dance move and she burst into a fit of giggles and replicated it. The evening continued in such a manner: a dancing exchange. For the rest of the week, whenever we saw each other, we would greet each other with a little spontaneous dance party which made us laugh and inspired sisterly affection. Wanting to connect with my host family when language wasn’t an option inspired a form of communication and connection that I did not know was possible. The day I left, we did not dance. But when I hugged her goodbye, she squeezed me tight and said “I love you.” Mikaela Dunitz – Georgetown University

Body Language

A 21-hour flight to a country where you can’t speak a lick of the local language is quite disorienting (except if you’re Perla). But after three weeks of intense group process and Thai boot camp, the 30 of us CIEE students came together, much like the kaow neow [sticky rice]

we consume on a daily basis. In between endless readings, lectures and a Thriller performance that changed lives, we all managed to knock this newsletter out. The stories within reflect our individual experiences since we first arrived in Bangkok. Whether our mispronounced Thai

words shocked our homestay families or we made out with a yai [grandma], Thailand has given us all something to write home about. Here’s to another three months of discovering the many

flavors of sweetened condensed milk.

*”Benyangai” is an informal way of saying, “How’s it going?”

Volume IX Issue 1 February 11, 2009

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As soon as I stepped off the plane in Bangkok, it became apparent that certain norms practiced in the U.S. might be improper in Thailand. Understanding the various social customs of dining, dressing and greeting have made for a smoother transition as a foreigner into the “Land of Smiles.” In my first home stay experience I realized the significance of my sitting position. When sitting it is very important to never point your feet at anyone for it is considered very insulting. This is due to the belief in Thai culture that the head is the most sacred part of the body, whereas the feet are the least. During most meals Thai people sit with their

feet tucked under them. Getting used to this new posture was uncomfortable at first but now comes very natural to me. Experiencing my first Thai communal dinner was both delicious and insightful. At my homestay, my host-mother would interpret my empty plate as a sign that I am still hungry and continue to feed me. As I have learned over the past few weeks, it is better to leave a little bit on your plate rather than to finish everything completely once you are full. With such warm weather in Thailand, I was tempted to bring my sundresses, skirts and tank tops. However, any revealing clothing worn by both men and women is considered inappropriate to most Thais.

Clothing that I would never have considered to be inappropriate back home such as shorter skirts or low cut shirts had to be left at home. Knowing this, I am keeping my modest Thai dress code in mind when the weather heats up. Finally and perhaps most important in understanding Thai etiquette is learning how to greet a Thai person. Shaking someone’s hand in Thailand is almost never seen as a usual greeting. Instead, Thais wai by placing their hands together in prayer position. Then, the hands rise upwards towards the face while the head is lowered in a slight bow. The height to which

the hands should be raised depends upon the person you wai. If you are greeting a monk your hands should be

placed near your forehead. If the person you wai is an elder or teacher it is appropriate to place your hands near the bridge of your nose. However, if I am greeting my roommate or other people my own age, I will wai them with my hands near my chest. Having this basic knowledge about Thai etiquette has helped me feel more comfortable transitioning to my life here in Thailand. I look forward to continuing my education on the culture of this beautiful country. Tany Horgan – University of Massachusetts Amherst.

Step out, Out of yourself,Begin the journeyStep out,With yourself,Lose yourself,Only to find yourself CIEE Khon Kaen has inspired me to go beyond my circle of comfort.

This program has provided me a chance to challenge my thoughts, form new ideas and participate in my own learning experience. The rich and open quality of conversations inside and outside of the classroom has helped me strengthen my weaknesses. One area I’m currently working to fortify is my ability to articulate my thoughts more clearly. Developing good listening skills has helped me to identify this

struggle. I’m also trying to practice the idea of simplicity within my writing. Overall, CIEE has many great tools and resources. However, self-motivation, a key element, must be cultivated within. By continuing to motivate myself, I hope to develop an understanding of how to sustain quality of human life. Piper Harrington – Lesley University.

Putting the wai in courtesy

Taking the first stepCommunity


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Sticky fingers Sticky rice covers my hands as I sit cross-legged on the floor of a Sala in Nong Jaan village. Copious amounts of delicious Thai food are placed in the center of the circle my host family and I surround. Illuminated by candlelight we eat in silence, using sticky rice as silverware, and a communal drinking cup to wash down the chili peppers.

In this moment I feel infinitely closer to my host family and the friends that surround me. Through my relatively brief experience here in Thailand I have observed the quintessential role of mealtime as it is expressed in Thai ideologies surrounding family and community.

In the United States, my family’s mealtime is a rushed affair. We try to sit down all together, but are often distracted from enjoying each other’s company. Everyone serves themselves in the beginning of the meal, on a

designated plate for each individual. When silence falls, our immediate reaction is to

create forced conversation. We seem unable to enjoy each other’s company in silence. Yet, in Thailand I’ve noticed that silence surrounding meals serves to enforce and strengthen bonds in community and familial relationships.

As language and culture influence and reflect one another, I find it especially interesting that the Thai word for family, krorp-kroo-a, and kitchen, horng-kroo-a, share the same ending.

As I write this piece in the CIEE activity room, I realize my friends and I have adopted the Thai custom of communal eating ourselves. We eat in silence, sharing different dishes, and enjoying each other’s company. Eliza Leavitt – Kenyon College.

“You are my daughter now,” she says. She ties the ritual string, for protection, around my right wrist. My arm is politely supported at the elbow by my left hand. She is my meh (mother) from our first home stay in Noong-Jon village in Loei province.

She is a woman of tremendous generosity and strength. Within minutes of arriving, she puts on her glasses and begins teaching me words from her decade-old Thai-English picture dictionary. She is an instructor in the village school. She takes me to the school. Several children run from their homes and excitedly follow us inside, playing and admiring Tyler’s tallness.

That evening, we exchange with the villagers of Noong-jon. They are living “illegally” on the land they’ve called home for over 50 years. Meh has much to say, adding to the village head’s responses. She wants us American students to know about their personal struggles and delights. Everyone listens intently. Back home, something falls from the single board spanning the four foot high ceiling. My roommate, Tany, calls me over to look. Meh has dozens of poster boards and pamphlets about reproductive health. She teaches pregnant mothers how to care for themselves and their children.

Tany and I use our very broken Thai in an attempt to express how important it is that she is talking about these overly muted issues. Stacking the posters away, she sets up mosquito nets over our bed and wishes us goodnight.

She sneaks off to wash the day’s dishes and to prepare sticky rice for tomorrow’s breakfast. In the morning, our group travels to Pha Phuang Cave, along a path the villagers constructed. Recently, the government has created checkpoints to collect money from visitors without recognition of the villagers work.

Meh is the one who speaks with the government official at the checkpoint. She would like to demonstrate to them how interested the world is in Noong-jon. She hopes this will persuade the government to legally recognize the people of her village, and allow them to continue living 100 percent sustainably off of the land there. It is incredible to see such a knowledgeable, respected woman in the middle of the Thai mountains. As she waves good-bye, her stories stay with me.

Sarah Robinson – Case Western Reserve University

My one-night mother


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Relative to other cultures, it seems that Americans have too little faith in the power of community. As a society that prides itself on self-empowerment, a noticeable flaw is our general inability to show weakness or

seek guidance. At our first home-stay in Nong

Jon, the collection of 50-some-odd huts didn’t seem to meet my conception of a village. Doors were literally non-existent and doorbells unheard of. The

stream of children and adults flowed uninhibited. This created a sense of strength that most foreigners could find only in the gathering of their nuclear family.

The few hundred villagers of Nong Jon have spent the past four decades fighting the Thai government for the right to live on the land where they rightfully settled centuries ago. Although they have been successful thus far, there is no promise that their home today will be their home tomorrow.

Instead of relying on the acquisitive nature of home, the villagers of Nong Jon find tangible strength in their community. They realize the wealth of power that comes from being surrounded by the people you love and trust. How can we, as people who pride ourselves on independence, welcome vulnerability and conceptualize the power of community?

Tyler Jackson – Occidental College.

Power of community

For our first homestay the group visited Nong Jon, an illegal forest village situated between Loei and Khon Kaen province in North East Thailand. On the ride to the village, I was a bit apprehensive about our first overnight adventure. My Thai language skills were limited and I was still unclear on how to successfully shower in a patoong, which is basically a large sheet used to avoid exposing oneself.

In addition to these concerns, I wondered what spending a night in a village hut would actually be like. In the months before coming to Thailand, I enjoyed pondering my romanticized vision of “roughing” it. As the moment drew nearer, I started to wonder what it would really be like to sleep in a room with my entire homestay family, use squatting toilets, and eat on the floor. I got out of the van and looked into the forgiving eyes and smiling faces of our future Meh’s and Paw’s

who were ready to receive us. My anxiety vanished. Our homestay began with a string ceremony.

Each Meh presented her new daughter or son with a short piece of string. According to Thai tradition, when one travels far from home, the spirit may be left behind. The string is tied to your wrist to reattach the neglected spirit to your body.

The warmth and compassion that the group experienced during this introduction continued throughout our stay in Nong Jon. By the end of our short stay in the forest village, I was sad to leave my host family that I had bonded with so quickly. Even though I am far from mastering the Thai language, and showering in a patoong is still a bit confusing, I am no longer nervous about the homestay portion of the semester.

Katja Nelson - Occidental College.

Strung together


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“Obama! Obama! Obama!” At an otherwise quiet Waranya Resort in Loei Province, Thailand, the sounds of 30 college students chanting is loud and clear. For the first time since the CIEE Khon Kaen study group arrived at our orientation site, we have managed to drown out the inebriated karaoke of the Thai business retreat-goers, the only other guests at the resort.

Despite a conscious commitment to “be here” not only physically but mentally, a buzz surrounded us all day on January 20, 2009. 12 hours ahead of Washington DC, students spent breaks between Thai lessons strategizing ways to tap into American news channels,

hunt down an internet connection or locate the closest bar with cable that evening. Never giving up hope, midnight slowly approached. Although we were on the other side of the world, we felt the excitement building.

A scream from the room upstairs signaled that we had found it. The moment we had talked about all day and anticipated for much longer was here. And we could watch it. Two million people packed, freezing, onto the mall in Washington DC. And 15 of us piled into one tiny room, sprawled on beds, floors, and whatever space was available. Together, we watched Barack Hussein Obama take the 44th Presidential oath.

I will always remember this moment. Not only because of the hope I feel that the revolution started by this man in these sobering times will bring our country back to a state of humanity, a state of respect and opportunity. But also because of the people I shared it with. The people who every day are helping me to grow more, learn more and become more of the woman I am meant to be. While America is going through extreme challenges and transformation as a nation, confronting reality with a sense of hope, so too am I. We move forward together. Courtney Ahern – Colgate University

Inaugural bonding


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It was 5:30 in the morning and I could already hear the chanting. My host family’s house was just down the road from a Buddhist temple (wát), one small enough to blend in with the neighborhood. My host-mom, along with her family who lived on the street, gave alms to the monks every sunrise. Though it felt early, I woke up eager to see what their morning ritual entailed. I stepped out into the hallway to the smell of hot sticky rice and steamed corn. My mom was quietly clattering around, seeking out the presentable bowls to put the food in. Rubbing my eyes, I joined her in the kitchen and managed a morning smile. She seemed very pleased there was someone else up in the house. I made a few attempts to help with the preparation, but it was only a few moments before we were outside to greet the sun. An awakened world was unfolding before me as we strolled down the street. My mom’s brother was sweeping the driveway, her grandmother was unlocking her mini-street gas station, and her niece was shuffling on her flip-flops to join us for alms. The neighbors’ smiles and greetings

reached me like the warm, stretching sun rays. I thought that there could be no better way to start the day. By the time we reached the corner, three other family members had joined to sit and wait.

We crouched with the bowls pressed to our foreheads until the monks in their tamarind-colored robes approached. I subtly observed how the grandmother offered, and then I placed a corn cob in each of their baskets. The process was quick, even the Burmese blessing, but it still moved me.

I had woken up that morning thinking, “I’ll be able to say I gave alms to monks in Thailand!” but I did not walk away feeling accomplished. What had

impressed me was that this cute, family neighborhood started every day with the rising sun in order to give together. As a college student used to waking up just in time for class, the idea of starting each day with purpose really resonated with me. I hope I can bring home the warmth and positive energy my host family has given me and at least aim for an 8am wake-up call. Lisa Bruckner – Macalester College

A novel wake-up call

Our second homestay, the first that lasted more than one night, initially filled me both with excitement and apprehension. My family seemed absolutely wonderful, but the communication barrier left me feeling somewhat awkward. After all, it’s hard to feel like a gracious guest when your vocabulary is limited to basic introductions and food-related topics of conversation. After our first day of group activities on the homestay, I braced myself to return

home to a tongue-tied atmosphere. My fears were eased a little

bit when one of the first things my seven-year-old host-sister said to was den (“dance”). Conveniently, we had learned the word in Thai class just that morning. I repeated it back to her enthusiastically. I was not sure exactly what we were talking about, but I was happy to recognize the word.

Soon enough, we were walking through the neighborhood looking for some other CIEE students

and their host siblings. Finally, we all arrived at our destination. A stage was raised above a patch of pavement that was surrounded by a variety of decorations and statues, including one surprisingly evil-looking bunny.

After some initial confusion, we all started playing a game of tag, followed by other games. Far from needing perfect language communication, the games were actually much more fun without.

A group of Thai women

Aerobic experiences


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began to gather on the pavement. Suddenly, the Thai music that had been playing in the background switched to a Mary J. Blige tune.

A woman wearing workout clothes climbed up on the stage and began leading an aerobic dance session.

The affair was bizarre.

Elements of Thai culture blended with a familiar American scene. We provoked the laughter of our host siblings as we gamely tried to keep up with all of the steps.

I left arm-in-arm with my little sister. The threat of awkwardness was gone and, despite the limited vocabulary, our conversations felt more satisfying,. We had connected on a deep level. It was a bond that ellicited tears a few days later when we had to say goodbye.

Our understanding based on shared experience meant more than one based on words ever could. After all, when you have tag and aerobic dance, the only word you really need to know is “shower.”

Meghan Ragany - Georgetown University.

About a month ago, I was sitting in the National Theater in Washington, DC, waiting to see a revival of “West Side Story” in its pre-Broadway stop. This particular production was innovative for its use of language. The scenes and songs featuring only Puerto Rican characters were performed in Spanish.

True, this wasn’t a revolutionary change, but being a kid who took French class in high school, I wondered if “yo me siento hermosa” would hold the same meaning as when Natalie Woods belted it out in English.

It turns out the language barrier wasn’t so bad. And after experiencing the Khon Kaen University’s production of “West Side Story” last week, that English-Spanish barrier now seems more like a set of Lincoln Logs than a brick wall.

When I learned that, not only was I in Thailand, but that I would get to see my favorite show while I was here, I knew CIEE Khon Kaen was right for me.

So, first of all, I’d like to thank the KKU English Department for unknowingly rolling out the welcome mat in such an epic way. Secondly, I commend the KKU English Department for choosing a show that is challenging in story, song, and dance even

without the translation. The show in Washington, D.C. was disappointing. The orchestra was muted, the gang members were less than threatening, and Tony, far from a dreamboat, didn’t have much of a singing voice. Most of all, though, my high expectations went unmet. Going into the KKU performance, I had no expectations at all. Of course, there was some amusingly overdone makeup. It was occasionally overacted and some of the lines in English were a bit butchered.

The stage was small, though the set was very well done. Some scenes and songs were cut out. The dances were simplified and de-sexified, though still executed quite well. Nearly half the audience members left during a particularly long scene change at the midway point.

Despite the drawbacks,, when I left the theater I was certainly impressed. Though I criticize it freely here, it’s important to keep in mind that they were speaking a very different language than they usually do. Plus, it was a whole heck of a lot better than I would do as Thai Maria. Margo Silverman - Bates College

Dee–maak, Daddy–o!


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Ever let a nine-year-old teach you a dance? We had a dozen nine year-olds teach us. In Thai. The chaotic mess of limbs that followed could hardly be called rhythmic. After that debacle, CIEE students and their Nonchai elementary school counterparts circled up for their next challenge.

The precise details of the activity were lost on me but an Ajaan[teacher] said something about a chicken, armed us with poster paper and a pack of colored pencils and set us loose. Evie, Lukas and I drew dead chickens between hamburger buns and chicken heads in nugget form. That’s what happens when you give jey (vegetarian) folks a topic like meat. A dozen little hands reached around us, haphazardly filling in blocks of chickens, indifferent to color and form. They edged us out of the circle and went to work on their own masterpieces. Chickens with their heads cut off, chicken bones, butchers chasing chickens with knives, slaughterhouses, and fires with chickens perched atop. I looked at my partners in crime. Did we influence this sudden influx of violence against poultry? What had we created? The kids turned our simple, slightly morbid picture in to a how to guide in the art of chicken murder. The paper was littered with bloody chickens, upside down and sideways, each one dead in every sense of the word. After 15 minutes our groups displayed their poster along the wall. It wasn’t long before I realized something went terribly wrong. All

the other posters had a theme, like fruit or the ocean. They had clean drawings of crabs, identified in Thai and English, not dead chickens drawn every possible way. As I examined the artistic rendition of a man wielding a bloody

knife chasing a headless chicken, the point of the activity dawned on me. Each group’s drawings coincided with the lyrics of the songs they learned. Evie, Lukas or I should have been the solitary artist on this mission, drawing out what the students translated for us. When it became clear to the kids that we had no clue what we were doing, they took charge of the situation.

My group’s song was about grilled chicken. The drawings weren’t just depictions of bloody murder, they followed the song’s lyrics. While other groups might have learned new vocabulary and sweet dance moves that day, I came away with something

entirely different. My life had been shrouded in a cloud of constant confusion since I stepped off the plane in Bangkok. It wasn’t until some nine-year-olds drew a bunch of bloody chickens that I finally appreciated it. Melissa Garber - University of Massachusetts

Culture ShockGrilled chicken


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The sound of pounding music caught the attention of me and seven other CIEE students. Not ready to call it a night, our adventurous group decided to follow the music and see what was happening near the resort. We followed a winding road for 15 minutes, all the while listening for where the music was coming from.

Finally we stumbled upon the commotion, it was an outdoor karaoke party. Upon being spotted we were immediately invited in to dance and sing with the group. Engaged by the most welcoming Thai women, I had the unique opportunity to practice the limited Thai I learned earlier that day in part one of Thai boot-camp.

After a limited exchange my comrades and I were brought to the karaoke machine to start dancing while they sang Thai karaoke. One woman was doing an odd version of the chicken dance, while another was teaching me how to dance using the Thai hand motions.

Introductions continued until we were introduced to the Mayor of Loei Province. The Mayor, a middle age man, communicated with us through his limited English and our limited Thai. He took such a liking to us that he even tried playing matchmaker for a few of us and his

older male constituents. Not once was the fact that we were uninvited

mentioned. Suddenly Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” appeared on the karaoke machine and mikes were shoved into our hand. This was the only cue we needed to start singing our hearts out.

Shanon Hurley - Occidental College

Thump, thump, thump

The cart lurched over the uneven dirt path, our heads bobbing and ducking in unison. Seven people sat with legs dangling off the flat wooden platform. We were pulled behind an apparatus that looked somewhat like a small tractor. A young man drove, his face etched with deep ridges and wrinkles around his bright eyes from smiling

and laughing constantly. Small plots of vegetables and

stands of fruit trees slowly came in and out of view as we bumped down toward the village. Men and women in tall rubber boots and large sun hats rose from their work to smile as we passed. Tall, craggy mountains with faces of stone jutted from the forest on every side.

I had imagined this scene long before stepping foot in Thailand. It was picturesque and “foreign.” The way the mountains rose from the forest like giant fingers, the heavy floral scent in the air, and the driver’s worn smile and colorful clothing all fit nicely into my mental picture of rural “Thai-ness.” In the background of this imaginary slideshow I was lulled by bird songs and the sound of traditional Thai music drifting softly into earshot. Instead, the grating whine of German screamo music blared in my ear. I sat shoulder to shoulder with a 14-year-old Thai girl. We were connected by a thin wire – one ear bud snug in her ear and one in mine. She shuffled through the long list of MP3s stored on her slim cell phone.

Her eyes were lined in matte black and her nails painted the same

Hello...Thailand?


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Before entering the cave of Non-jon village, I along with my fellow students was aware that there would be no electricity or emergency exits. The only sources of light were flashlights and candles. However, the deep dark ominous feeling emanating from the cave gave me feelings of excitement. Each obstacle prepared me for the experience that lay ahead.

In order to enter the cave I had to duck my head under a huge rock and climb down bamboo scaffolding. While the entry was out of my comfort zone, it represented the reason I had come to Thailand. It was a chance to grow and become a stronger person.

After entering, I was awed at the depth of the darkness and the cave’s immensity. I felt as though I had gone where no person had gone before. I was pushing myself, blindly climbing on rocks, and sliding down hills. Each time I made sure I was careful not to fall. I went deeper into the cave, excited for what lay ahead. As the voyage drew to a close, one of the villagers recommended that we (a group of approximately 35 people) go down into the deepest part of the cave to see these different rock formations.

Just as I was congratulating myself on my ability to conquer this cave, my head went full force into a rock. As I put my hands to the bump to survey the damage I felt something wet. When I pulled my hand away to see what it was, my hand was covered in blood. Unsure as to whether I

should make a cave drawing or panic, the Thai people came to my rescue.

They along with my Ajaanstopped the bleeding, and helped me climb out of the cave. They took me on my first motorbike down a mountain (which I was more excited about than the cave), and drove me to the closest government clinic. Once there I went straight to a table where the wound was cleaned. I was given three stitches and sent on my merry way. In fact, this entire escapade, done without any form of identification, only took 30 minutes and set me back $4.

I was amazed at the efficiency and care in which the Thai people had treated me as well as the accessibility of healthcare. If this were the States I would have waited for at least an hour in the emergency room. Not to mention that the insurance co-pay would have cost more money than the

entire bill in the Thai clinic. From this adventure, I could

not help but truly see the depth of contradiction between America and Thailand. While America is considered the land of opportunity and happiness, it is unable to provide healthcare to a majority of its people. On the contrary, Thailand is able to provide accessible and affordable healthcare.

This experience has left many unanswered questions in my mind. However, I believe that this is also the beginning of a variety of adventures and experiences I hope to take away from Thailand.

Elizabeth Baldetti - Marist College

DIRECTOR’S NOTE: Due to this incident, if students were to return to the village, the CIEE program will donate (and then use) helmets to this unfunded rural tourism effort.

hip color. She called out something in Thai and the tractor slowed to a stop. In a swift movement she pulled back the ear buds and jumped off the platform, motioning for me to follow. I obeyed, sliding clumsily onto the dusty road.

Ahead lay a small house. In front stood a black motorcycle, its

dusty body covered with brightly colored Hello Kitty and Pokémon stickers. She was already on the motorcycle, looking back at me expectantly.

I hopped on and wrapped my arms hesitantly around her waist. A second later we were off, weaving around the sluggish tractors. We

were hooting and laughing, waving at my classmates as we passed. The men and women tilted their hats back to smile from the fields. “Sa-nuk, mai?” she asked me, beaming. “Sa-nuk maak!” I yelled back. Very fun.

Hannah Clark - Universty of Michigan

Thai healthcare surprises


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We were prepared for this. They told us the first thing our homestay families would do was to throw us stinky, sweaty farang [foreigners] in the shower. We wrapped ourselves up in our patoongs [Thai bath robes] and clumsily held them up with our teeth as we undressed.

The walls of the living room were made of thatch and gaping holes, making us a spectacle for any passers-by, of which there seemed no shortage. My homestay mother eventually poked her head in and chuckled, and we grinned in response. They told us that we’d be showering, but they forgot to mention that by some freak accident eight of us would be at the same homestay that evening.

We had just communicated that we were to take baths and in the delirium of understanding Thai we all forgot to stop and think about the logistics. In this small village, which didn’t have electricity or running water, no homestay was going to have a bath house big enough to fit eight of us.

We came to this realization sometime after the third passerby, my 15-year old homestay brother, Nong Lee looked in and giggled. Dressed in our patoongswewondered where my homestay mother was. She emerged from a rusty tin hut across the yard in her own patoong, freshly showered and soaking wet.

Having had some experience with speaking Thai, I tried to ask her how we should take our baths. Should we go together or separately? When were the other

homestay mothers coming to pick the others up? These are questions I would have asked, had I been able.

Instead, I communicated mostly with wild hand gestures and confused smiles. Eventually, I just made up something to tell everyone else that sounded believable.

We were all lighthearted about the whole thing. We took pictures of our “patoong party” (now documented on facebook). After our shower, we looked inside our Thai dictionaries to slaughter yet another word in the Thai language and laugh at ourselves when we weren’t understood. One of the temples I visited in Bangkok, Wat Suthat, has statues of farang guarding each entrance, representing the first foreigners that came to Thailand and all of them are smiling. I now realize the importance behind this simple gesture.

Our life for the next semester will be one of miscommunication, awkwardness and frustration. Even so, there are modes of expression that are universally understood. The simplicity and effectiveness of a smile or laugh is extremely powerful, a fact that we ocassionally forget when we get caught up in expressing ourselves through language.

What difference did it make if we took our baths together or separately? All that matters is that we immersed ourselves with that first bucket of refreshingly cold water with a smile on our face and a laugh behind our lips.

Sarie Hill - Kenyon College

Aap Naam! Aap Naam!


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After dinner one evening, a few of my fellow farangs, our noong chaais and noong saaos took a trip to “Bixee.” My eight-year-old brother led me down the stairs and across some stepping stones dotting the alleyway between the houses. “Bah, Bixee!” he said, pulling me towards the songtaew waiting in the road. A cursory glance towards my fellow CIEE students led me to believe that we three farangs had no idea where, who, or even what “Bixee” was. I let this go for the moment and joined in the kid’s enthusiasm for this mythical “thing.” After a 10 minute drive, the songtaew pulled into a crowded parking lot. A big box store loomed before us, an all too familiar sight in the States (minus the tuk-tuks of course). Next came the unforgettable “Aha!” moment. In large, imposing Roman letters, the bright green sign read “Big C.”

I walked through the automatic doors and weaved my way between the clusters of shoppers. Although my eyes eventually adjusted to the harsh lighting, I could not process the flood of stimuli that smacked my senses silly. Video game vendors and car dealers stood between me and the escalator that literally took this experience to a new level. The upper levels of Big C offered everything you would expect from a grocery store, like baked goods and fresh fish. It also offered everything you would not expect like a kiosk selling houses and an entire aisle stocked with whiskey. Not even Wal-Mart sells cars, houses, and whiskey under one roof. Ironically, stores like Big C are the reason I left the United States to come to Thailand in the first place. While disenchanting, Big C is still part and parcel of the Thai experience Jenny Hardy–The University of Tulsa

At Big C, size matters

Tasting new food is one of the most exciting aspects of this trip. When was the last time you ate something you couldn’t identify? For me, it’s an almost daily occurrence. My favorite is the fruit.

Before we learned their proper names,,we called the new varieties things like, “wrinkly, brown fruit,” “sweet, ribbed, yellow fruit,” “spiky, red fruit,” and “round, purple fruit with fleshy, white seeds inside.” Nothing reinforces the fact that you’re halfway around the world like being unable to name the food you put into your body. Every bite is an adventure.

The bananas even taste different. They’re smaller and they pack way more flavor. Bananas back home, comparatively tasteless, are probably ruined forever for me. I used to mentally commend the local Safeway grocery store for stocking the occasional, exotic star fruit or plantain. Now, I think they shouldn’t even try.

Globalization has benefited the States in many ways. Yet, our stores don’t stock produce that has

the wonderful taste of Thai fruit. In some ways, this is encouraging. Still, South East Asia doesn’t have everything. Globalization has failed to bring quality cheese to Thailand. For example, what passes for pizza here is drizzled with a strange mozzarella flavored concoction that looks like nacho cheese.

Unfortunately, outside the context of wishful thinking, words like “brie,” “gouda,” and even “cheddar” won’t be in my vocabulary for the next few months. Actually, dairy in any form is scarce. Sweetened condensed milk abounds in place of fresh milk. I’ve not seen yogurt yet, but I suppose it’s okay if I don’t eat cultivated mold for awhile.

Sometimes it feels like a battle, but I’m content to surrender myself to the dietary experience of Thailand. Besides, why yearn for cheese when you can have “dragon fruit?” Evelyn Holt–Wake Forest University

Foreign fruit


1�

Language barriers have provided some interesting stories during my three weeks in Thailand. One night at my homestay near the Nongwaeng School in Khon Kaen, I hopped into a car with my host family. I was told we were traveling to a “soy festival.”

Along with me was another CIEE student, Melissa and her host-brother. After driving to this “soy festival” we discovered it was an Agricultural Fair we had gone to the weekend before our stays with the host families. The fair showcased live animals like ostriches, cows, crocodiles and a deer, in addition to various food and clothing kiosks.

After looking at different kiosks with my host family, we ended up at a vendor selling insects and bugs for snacks. Melissa and I had actually tried some of these bugs during our prior visit to the fair, and tried to tell my host mom about the experience.

However, we were not able to communicate this effectively and she thought we wanted to eat the insects instead. Needless to say, she appeared half an hour

later with bags of cockroaches, scorpions and crickets. Melissa and I (not wanting to seem rude,) ended up eating them all over again.

I believe the cockroach was the worst of the snacks, probably because its legs got stuck between my teeth while I was trying to chew it. My host family enjoyed my semi-disgusted face while eating.

This was shown by their constant laughter, which I joined in on.

Although I didn’t like having the insects in my stomach, the experience displayed the ability for people to connect with one another, even when they do not speak the same language. Also, I can now say I ate a scorpion!

Julia Lee - Bates College

Insects sep mai?

I was nervous as I walked down the street to my first homestay by Nongwaeng School. I was about to meet my 9 year old homestay brother and his family. I love children. I’ve worked as a teacher for years.

Still, I was afraid to meet my new little brother. I had never met a child that I could not speak with. I was afraid that I would not be able to connect with him the way I could with children back home. Meeting Nung changed everything. Immediately, I realized he spoke literally no English. Within minutes, however, we were communicating. We took photos together, drew pictures of houses with crayons, and he

taught me the colors in Thai. We played tic-tac-toe and rock-paper-scissors. He taught me three card games I’d already learned as a teacher along with their names in Thai. We rode bikes in the park and laughed at shows on TV.

We did everything I did with my students back home, and we did them without being able to speak. I realized then what an amazing thing it was to enjoy each other through things that are universal, like games, photography, and art.

I have always relied on verbal skills to get to know people. I found it amazing that I could become so close to a child when we barely understood one another through

Universal communication


1�

My struggles to effectively communicate with my host families has taught me that no matter what language you speak, the universal language of laughter can create some of the fondest and warmest memories.

My attempts at speaking Thai have been an ongoing, yet very entertaining battle. Trying to say what I want to say has proven to be a lot harder than I expected. While it has been difficult, it has made for a few funny stories. One stands out far more than the rest , the time I tried to tell my host family that there was a foot of snow on the ground at my home in Massachusetts. The last night of my second homestay in the Nongwaeng village of Khon Kaen will provide stories from both my perspective and the perspective of my host family for many years.

My host-father, or Paw, asked if I was cold. I assured him that I was not, that it was very hot to me. All our dialogue was in the little, broken Thai I could communicate with and the few English words my Paw knew.

Following my response, I told him, and the rest of the family, that it was very cold where I was from. Next I mentioned there was a foot of snow at my house. The small room burst with laughter – quite a loud burst since there were nine people staying in the one room house.

I had no idea the foreign idea of snow would provide such a response. I continued along laughing, unaware of what exactly they thought was so funny about American weather conditions.

In between gasps for air, my host-father pointed to their mangy dog outside. This is when I got the idea things had gone wrong. I quickly snagged my Thai-English dictionary and

flipped to the phonetic section. The word “snow”, or “hi-ma,” can be severely misconstrued if the tone is not correctly pronounced. Just my luck, instead of telling them I had a foot of snow at my house, I informed my host-family that I had 12 inches of female canine reproductive organs stacked on the ground outside of my house.

I then realized how funny what I said was and joined in on the laughter. Before, I had felt so disconnected from my family because of our difficulties communicating. But in that moment I felt so warmly connected to them when we just sat and laughed.

Justin Crosbie - George Washington University.

speech. I’m glad to know that language is not necessary for communication.

Melissa Munz - Whitman College.

Pronounciation mishap


1�

New PerspectivesBeauty and whiteness

I sit for a good hour amidst disorganized stacks of coke bottles, notebooks, condiments, and the occasional toddler, observing how things are run in my homestay family’s restaurant.

I have been trying to review the names and relationships of my entire extended family (all of whom I met two seconds after walking in) as I watch them prance around half working and half goofing off.

Nok, my older sister, quickly throws her head back, and exhales, clutching her belly as she plops into the chair across from mine. She does this shrug-clutch action often, a mock gesture arising out of the general discomfort of being five months pregnant. Nok stares at me, repeatedly saying that I look like a doll. I am confused when she begins to playfully toss around the nickname “Ba-bee!” It takes me a couple minutes of gesturing and broken Thai to figure out that she actually means “Barbie.” Once again, my whiteness, or that of some of my CIEE friends, is isolated and commented on. It was something I sort of knew would happen but certainly not to this extent. It definitely never occurred to me that the looks of an Eastern European Jewish girl with raging curly hair would be equated to the blonde Anglo icon of American femininity and beauty. Amongst other conversations about beauty, I am told that Thais

believe that if a pregnant woman stares at a beautiful face (implying one that is white or pale) for a long period of time, her child will be born with those features. I found this conversation and others that would follow sort of unsettling. Over the next couple of days, whiteness became a constant topic of conversation between Nok and I. The

fascination with whiteness seems to go beyond superficial pigment preferences. Bleaching creams alongside Thai representations of beauty in media and advertising seem to imply that skin color is an indication of class, socio-economic

statues, wealth, occupation and education. Whiteness (or paleness) is seen as beautiful because of the power, status, and opportunity that is associated with being white. While it often gets reduced to “suai maak” (very beautiful), some gentle skin stroking, and Barbie-related nicknames, the “pale as beautiful” mentality has pervaded

the Thai social consciousness. Although its intentions are sweet and accommodating, it is also alarmingly isolating. Rebecca Haverson - Muhlenberg College.


1�

In a long awaited night out, nearly the entire CIEE student body squeezed into four tuk-tuks headed to downtown Khon Kaen. This was not an uncommon sight. After two exhausting weeks, we have transformed into a swarm, often moving through the city as a single farang unit. This particular night was no exception.

When we reached the first stop of the night, each one of us filed in seamlessly one by one. However, as I prepared to squeeze through the door, several of the establishment’s employees stopped me and asked, “Where are you from?”

I have heard this question directed at me over and over in the States. I have sampled an array of answers: “My parents are from China,” “America by way of Hong Kong… and a generation gap,” and “Queens.” In Thailand, I have also entertained these various responses, wincing when my response is countered with “No, where are you really from?” or worse, “What are you?”

That night, I told the men at the door, “America.” They were unconvinced, and requested some form of identification. One of my friends offered that I should show them my KKU student ID card, and to this I responded quite bitterly, “No, that won’t make a difference, I know what they want.” I revealed my New York state ID, and after a moment of consideration, they finally let me in.

Despite the brevity of this interaction, it has tremendous implications. For one, it reveals the complicated definition behind farang. A native born Thai tells me that she defines farang as a white Westerner. For me, the more appropriate term is kon jeen, which references my Chinese ancestry.

In my time here, I have heard both. My host-sister of my last homestay refers to me as farang to her friends. In jest, CIEE students refer to our collective body as “we farangs.” Alternatively, at our village homestay at Nong Jong, several uncles identified me as kon jeen, and following shortly, said something I would never forget.

“You aren’t like the rest of your friends.” These loaded terms perhaps reflect how the looming nature of globalization is translated upon something seemingly so insignificant in our daily lives. Consider what it means for example, to check the box for “educational tourism” in our immigration slips prior to exiting the airport.

What does it mean when a farang can enter a place unchecked? What privileges are afforded not just to tourists but certain tourists? And finally knowing this, what can we as study abroad students do to become aware of not only the structure of our environment, but these very issues as they are translated globally? Muriel Leung - Sarah Lawrence College.

Farang defined


1�

Learning has always been very precious to me, but recently I have developed an intense aversion to my typical love of learning.

To put it simply, I am exasperated. My body cringes with the thought of another semester at school. I cannot stand the thought of another week of sleepless nights. I know too well of nights with my eyes wired open, my teeth stained brown, and coffee ring stains printed over all of my notebooks. The thought of sitting in the depths of the library starved of nutrition, sleep and a peace of mind is enough to make me puke.

One might ask why I feel this intense aversion to learning. The answer is simple. I cannot stand the idea of learning from a typical U.S. educational model when the end result proves to be extremely inefficient.

My change of heart came recently. In the CIEE Thailand program, I am experiencing learning from a new angle. This angle does not focus on absorbing facts from lectures and textbooks but rather from real experiences.

I have always wrestled with the thought of how little information I retain

following a large test or examination. In the CIEE Thailand Program, I learn from my peers as well as from other people I speak with. I am given a basis of knowledge which I apply to different situations I stumble across. In this way, I am able to retain the information I learn, and grow. I can go on about the amazing characteristics of this program, but it’s something you have to and need to experience.

Learning from certain people and situations can have a much more profound effect than from a poorly written textbook. I no longer care about locking facts into my head through sleepless nights for the hope of only remembering a tiny fraction of what I read. After this experience,I know how to best capture them all. Samuel Newman - Penn State University.

A new learning model

To show us how the rest of the semester will be structured, the interns prepared a two-day unit about HIV/AIDS in Thailand. We spent the first day in preparation for an exchange with an organization based out of the Mahasarakham Hospital which helped support those living with HIV/AIDS.

On the second day, we had an exchange with volunteers and health workers about their organization. Afterwards, we split into smaller groups to visit the homes of people living with HIV/AIDS. When these visits were over, we returned to our host families for the night.

The van ride to and from the hospital was long enough to allow for some thought. On the way to the hospital, I was unsure as to how the exchange would work. I was also unsure of what my role should be. I was confident that I would learn something important from the day, though it wasn’t clear at the

time. On the van ride home, I realized that I had come away with many questions.

Joe, a volunteer at the organization who is living with HIV/AIDS, said something that I thought about in the van. He as well as another volunteer, Bill, spoke about showing people that they were living rather than dying. It seemed as if there is a general belief that people living with HIV/AIDS were dying. This association with death made their community members unreceptive and often unsupportive. As this is the case, Joe also spoke about changing communities’ perceptions.

However, I still wonder if it is possible, and perhaps important, for us to define ourselves as both living and dying. I am struggling to understand why this distinction is emphasized.

Catherine Fuller - Vassar College.

PLWHA Exchange


1�

An army of chickens steps lightly. Their heads jerk about as they hunt in the soil for bits to eat. Watchful hens lead platoons of peeping fluff balls. Courage mounting, they fan out from their mothers’ shadows. Seconds later they return, terrified by the sudden movement of our shuffling feet. As they tumble over one another to reach the safety of the hens, they kick up puffs of dust. The puffs hang in the air, catching rays of the day’s last sunlight. Stomach in knots and my hands in my pockets, I sigh to relieve my own anxiety. I try to think of questions I could ask this woman our small group has come to visit. Five years ago, she found out she is HIV-positive. Since then she has gone blind and is almost cripple.

The woman’s husband, a professional musician, is playing a song on his khaen, a traditional Lao reed instrument. We are waiting for her to finish showering. Suddenly, AjaanJohn, our teacher, translator, and friend, announces the arrival of the yai, the woman’s mother. She is returning from

a party. We’ve heard that in Thailand, a yai does as a yai pleases. Many social taboos no longer apply to a yai. Rules about how men and women are supposed to behave with one another simply don’t apply to her.

This yai is pretty drunk. As she dances her way through the kitchen to the yard where we wait nervously, the leaves in her hair and the smell of whiskey tells us so. Ajaan John, between bouts of laughter, translates a few of her phrases. “Everything is spinning,” she tells him. And, “When you play music I can’t stop my body from moving.”

Yai definitely has some moves. She is also confident. First she grabs at the woman’s husband, then she sways over to us, still nervous, farang. AjaanJohn begins to translate more selectively, we notice. After stroking a few of the girls’ hands, she plants a smooch on Sam. Deftly, he turns his head so that her lips hit his cheek.

I’m still laughing when Sam tells her that I too want a kiss. Yai grips my ears in her talons and swoops in. After I count her teeth (eight), I pucker

up tightly. She kisses me on the lips. Twice. First there’s a testing peck, then she darts in from a different angle. Her mouth is open, mine is clamped tight.

We part, and I am a new man. All around me, Thai and farangare laughing, looking at one another in wonder. Now I’m not the least bit nervous about speaking to this amazing woman we’ve come to visit. I mean, there are ice-breakers, but this is on a par with global warming.

When the woman emerges from the shower, it’s to a gathering of laughing farang. Our conversation is rich and inspiring. She tells us she’s very happy. Her friends and family have always been supportive and she is almost entirely able to care for herself.

On the ride home, I look at the sun setting over distant tropical trees and smile. I think about the meaning and value of words such as affection, love, empathy, and laughter. I think about how a simple act can give us the confidence to take flight. Luke Rampersad - Swarthmore College

Overly friendly yai’s

We remember the moment we realized our perceptions of poverty had changed. It was the moment we realized that

classes, documentaries, and academic journals had failed to describe how diverse experiences of poverty can be.

The CIEE Spring 2009 students and members of the Nong Jaan village were sitting together in the sala (meeting place). In that moment, we realized we were two incredibly distant communities exchanging as one.

Students cautiously began throwing around questions about life in the village, the implications of living illegally in a Thai forest, and how happy the villagers were with their lifestyle. It was the answer to this last question that immediately shattered our perceptions of poverty. A woman spoke up in response to the inquiry. Her reply was strong and profound, expressing how much she appreciated her neighbors, how incredibly proud she was of the work they did as a community and how she could not imagine living anywhere else.

This expression of strength and community empowerment resonated with the students on this program.

A different wealth


19

Sarie Hill reflected, “Poverty is more than just not having electricity or plumbing, it’s a more social definition. If you are starved socially, that really defines your life. The villagers had such a solid support network and helped each other despite their subjugated position. Without that network, they would really be in poverty.”

This comment illustrates one of the most profound lessons we have learned from our interactions thus far, quality of life is not defined solely by economic capital, but is largely influenced by social capital.

Throughout the visit, students’ exchanges with villagers largely invalidated perceptions of poverty informed by pop culture media, academic literature and Western culture. Margo Silverman shared her experience with us: “Before coming to Thailand, I imagined the picture of poverty [as people] homeless on the streets, sick people, frail people, but the families on my homestay were happy, with full lives.”

By Western standards of poverty, the people of Nong Jaan should be leading lives of meagerness, powerlessness and distress, but this description does not reflect what we

experienced in Nong Jaan. Katja Nelson felt that her perceptions of poverty had

changed greatly after her experience at Nong Jaan. “Based on our standards, we would consider them to be living in poverty, but that’s not what they are doing,” she said. “In a lot of ways they have more. They are content, which is really rare, especially for people who do have a lot.”

For many students, the lessons we are learning about poverty in Thailand are like nothing we have learned thus far. We have seen things that have surprised us and are finding tools to help us examine concepts like poverty, development, and community empowerment in entirely new ways.

This has begun a process of thinking critically about our lives, our lifestyles, our culture, and our country. Nong Jaan was just the beginning of this process, and our experiences will continue to shape our worldviews. In this way, both Thailand and this program are helping us develop our personal, political and social consciousness. Kelsey Birza and Alex Scott - University of Missouri and Georgetown University

Still groggy from waking up, I stumbled to the front yard where my adopted family for the week ran a food stand. As I reached the breakfast table I stared at all the food that had been freshly prepared for me.

A giant bowl of warm soup filled with chunks of tofu and colorful vegetables stared back at me. Next to the soup was a plate of thick noodles glistening with flavor and bright red peppers. That should have been enough food for a few breakfasts, but behold, around the corner rode my pii-chai. on his red motorbike. He returned holding a plastic bag overflowing with pastries in the chance that I had a hollow leg and would still be hungry.

One might be fooled into thinking that my adopted family was rich and could afford such excessive displays of food. The truth is that they barely got by with the maa pulling a 6 a.m.- 9 p.m. shift every day and the pararely making it home from whatever job he did (since I never really saw him, I never got the chance to ask him).

No, my family didn’t have stacks of Benjamins (or Rama IXs in Thailand), but as I learned through my time with them they had a different type of wealth. Growing up and living in a U.S. society it can sometimes be hard to separate money from happiness. In the States, it seems that money is the means to all things desirable.

The hospitality that my family

showed me was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in the U.S. From the first night I met this family, they gave me nothing but acceptance and tried as hard as they could to stuff me full of fresh food cooked from scratch. Surely this is true wealth. My debit card never cooks me soup. Lukas Winfield - Portland State College

Rethinking wealth


20

David Streckfuss • Resident Director • [email protected] • 01-�0�-1��2Arunee Chupkhunthod • Program Assistant • [email protected] • 01-9��-��00Jintana Rattanakhemakorn • Language Coordinator • [email protected] • 01-��2-��2�John Mark Belardo • Office Manager • [email protected] • 0�-��9-��2�Kanokpan Paladech • Assistant Program Coordinator • [email protected] • 0��-2�0-��00

For five days students gathered in a small air-conditioned classroom while curtains hid the surprise they were preparing. This afternoon, they rehearsed for one last time before the big event. Today was the annual International Food and Culture Festival held by Khon Kaen University.

The students of CIEE Thailand danced in the festival to Michael Jackson’s world famous hit, “Thriller.” The dance troupe, with Alexandra Scott taking charge as the personal dance instructor, organized themselves for this endeavor. Students participating in the dance agreed that Scott was an ideal teacher. She was both patient and able to instruct dancers at varying skill levels. Interns of the program also agreed that under the supervision of Scott, this semester’s performance was more organized and successful than in past years. The evening began when students, clad in black with eyeliner scars on their faces, walked over to the outdoor pavilion where the festival was held. The energy was livelier than that of zombies, but the scene may have been just as terrifying to the KKU students who looked on.

Excitement grew as the group neared the activity site, and finally peaked when students arrived at a fairground full of colorful stalls. Waiting anxiously, the performers

munched on spring rolls from Vietnam, sub sandwiches from Laos, and sipped on sangria from Spain. Many expelled their pre-performance jitters by walking around the communal tables which were full of students, faculty, and community members. Traditional Thai dancers finished their set. It was time. After beginner language student, Sarah Robinson introduced the student group in Thai, the performers fell forward and swayed, rising from the dead. Spectators screamed fanatically as dry ice fogged from the floor and the universal riff boomed through the loud system.

Students of the university rushed the stage and flashes exploded. The scene was that of an international pop sensation. When the dance ended, the audience erupted with applause. Performers left the stage dripping with sweat and smiling ear to ear. In reflection, student Evelyn Holt sees that the performance has succeeded to become more than just a dance. “It was really great that everyone was so enthusiastic. You could really see the group start to bond outside of the classroom.” Perla Bernstein - University of Wisconsin Madison

A cultural thriller

CIEE Khon Kaen Newsletter--2009--SP--No. 1

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Transcript of CIEE Khon Kaen Newsletter--2009--SP--No. 1