Monkey Boy's Return

I’m thinking of taking up cock-fighting. This week I have become aware of the plague of cockerels that inhabit the piece of land behind the house I’m now in (the local Priest’s). I become aware of them at about 5.30am every morning; I’m not sure whether they set up their own poultry buses to ship additional cockerels in especially for me, but I don’t appreciate their endeavours. I can now see that inflicting pain upon them could well offer some cathartic value.

If crowing cockerels (is that right?) have been a constant over the last week, there have been many other events that have not. On the whole I’ve had some cracking experiences and I’m sure there are plenty more on the way. In no particular order…

Teaching! Yes, I have now got round to doing what I came out here to do. Initially I was to start by shadowing the other English teachers; lending a hand and utilizing my encyclopedic knowledge of English (…) as and when required. This never transpired. I was given an hours notice that I would be teaching classes and the English teachers would be helping me. Erk. I feel I performed admirably. I’m sure a real teacher may beg to differ. I taught the class three new words for ‘hello’ – hi; hiya; bonjour. The clever amongst you may notice an anomaly there for an English lesson. It was a toss up between ‘bonjour’ or ‘ayup’. I thought bonjour may have a practical use as a few Laos people (Laosatians?) speak French. More than speak Yorkshire anyway.

Having got everyone shouting ‘hi’ etc at each other I then very cunningly turned the lesson around and let the students teach me. I asked them why they want to learn English (“to get a foreign boyfriend”); which language areas they want to learn in English (one lass wants to learn English drama. I think ultimately she may be disappointed); and also to create some rules for English classes. Ha! Have some of that! This teaching lark is a breeze (I’m joking Dad).

I did that lesson 6 times in a week. Excellent. I have come to the decision that the best way to tackle this is to do one subject per week for everybody. It means that by Friday afternoon I’ve got the lesson down to a ‘T’. And then I never use it again. This week I have started with ‘Directions & Places’; next week is ‘Describing People’; the week after ‘The Relative Merits of Sheffield and Leeds as Places to Inhabit’. Not.

Alongside the teaching, I have also had my first taste of pastoral care. I found a girl red-eyed and sobbing sat in a corner, alone. Immediately we had a problem – she was 2nd year so her English, in the throws of emotional turmoil, was far from excellent; my Thai limited to ‘Thank you’, ‘Good day/hello’ and ‘no problem’. I placed a gentle reassuring hand on her shoulder as she backed away. Then legged it to find the nearest English & Thai speaking teacher. It turns out the girl had had her phone confiscated by one of the teachers two months ago and had yet to get it back. I was disappointed that a kid was crying due to the actions of a teacher. I know they do things different here – and kids should be scalded if they do wrong – but I felt it was a little off. So me and the teacher got to the bottom of the issue and wandered off to see the teacher who had done the confiscating. As we neared him, Shell (the English/Thai teacher) decided at that point to tell me it was the Military Instructor for the school we were going to talk to. Great. Dave versus the Thai Army. Should have left the kid bawling. Even though I can’t name one Thai military victory I still didn’t want to push my luck. So I valiantly let Shell do the talking and I stood there sweating like an Englishman in the heat.

Things were resolved in the end. The girls’ parents came in to speak to the Military Instructor. The girl, it turns out, is disruptive in class and this is her final warning. Her conduct is to be reviewed next semester and if there are any more issues she is apparently out on her arse. She got the phone back.
Anyway, you don’t want to know about the boring teaching shizzle; you want tales of derring-do, near-death experiences and Dave getting in to bother (because me versus the Army isn’t enough, of course).

So what else have I been doing? I had made a list, but naturally I’ve left that in my desk in the school. Incidentally, the desk is clearly made for Thai people. But I’m getting to cherish the numb feeling as the blood gets cut off from my legs when I shuffle them underneath it.

Ah yes, first up. Having done my first day of teaching last Wednesday, I felt I deserved a cold beer. What better way to soak up the last of the evening sunshine than to take a book along, grab a beer in the local shop and read? Bliss. By the next morning in school all the kids were shouting “LEO! LEO!” at me. For those unfamiliar with Thai beer, Leo is a fine brew (well, the finest you’ll get out here), and exactly what I had been drinking in the shop. Clearly the sight of a foreigner having a drink and reading is BIG NEWS in Tha Bom. In fact, the reading didn’t even get picked up on. No. I may as well have been three sheets to the wind running around naked in a drunken rampage, chasing cockerels and trying to make them fight. No mention was made of me expanding my cultural references and awareness by reading “One of the decade’s most intelligent and provocative books” (The Daily Standard (??)), otherwise known as Freakonomics. It’s a good read by the way. Even the Priest knew about Leo by the next afternoon. The way I see it, this is a cultural exchange, so it’s only fair I show them what the British excel at.

My first Saturday of weaving was upon me. In one fell swoop I had doubled my list of medieval occupations (baker; weaver). I rocked up at 9.00am and the loom, well, loomed over me. It looked like a four-poster bed, without any slats or mattress. The kind old dear who was to show me the ways of her trade looked a little bemused to see a nigh on 14 stone white lad turn up. I could almost read her mind. “We’re going to need a bigger boat”. I was straight on to it though. I sat there for 7 hours, going left to right with the shuttle, and up and down with the comb. In retrospect, the colours that had been chosen weren’t perhaps the greatest. I was creating things that looked a little bit like tea-towels. Dirty tea-towels. Not exactly the shining examples of finest Thai weaving I was hoping I would be sending out as Christmas presents. But you’re still getting them dear family. Do what you wish with them. They’re about 20cm x 30cm (placemats?) and 20cm x 70cm (placemats?), grey and blue. By 4.00pm, after the crowds had stopped laughing, pointing and had subsided, I had had enough. Luckily my lift home arrived on time. I extricated myself from the loom; thanked the old dear and headed home. Aching and tired. Comments on Monday from some of the teachers were positive though. Apparently I learn quick. Clearly the sight of a foreigner weaving is BIG NEWS in Tha Bom (a common theme). So, after weaving and baking I’m hoping to continue the medieval theme and do some fletcher-ing, cooper-ing or wheelwright-ing before too long. Whilst brandishing a halberd.

On Sunday, a few of the students took me out. They had promised a lake and a waterfall. They delivered; they excelled. I clambered on to the back of one of their scooters and the gang were off. After 20 minutes of negotiating potholes and tractors, flying past fields of corn, yellow flowers, bananas, rubber trees and papaya trees, we arrived at a lake. Looking along the lake shore, I saw the faces of the five fishermen drop as they witnessed a screaming mob of kids (and me) emerge from the bushes and dive straight in without even giving thought to crocodiles, monster man-eating catfish, water-borne snakes or them little fish that swim up your wee and lodge themselves in your urethra. OK, maybe I had given it some thought. We splashed about a lot; I swam across the lake and back. It’s a little bit disconcerting to feel the water go cold as you hit the middle of the lake. About then I thought of crocodiles. But I’m reassured that they’ve all been shot to extinction in these parts. Thank the Lord for the lack of conservationism. And the little fish only inhabit Africa. Maybe the Amazon too.

Next up, the waterfall. I didn’t really know what to expect. We scootered off; the poor lass that had me on the back was cursing either my weight or a distinct lack of horse power. Most likely both. After another 20 minutes we parked up then jumped on the back of a tractor for the final mile or two. We were up in the hills, but the sun was out so the drop in temperature wasn’t really noticeable. Like a troupe of chimps the students were off into the jungle, leaping from rock to rock; tree trunk to tree trunk. I swear one of them even used a vine to swing. “This way teacher”; “Follow us!”. I was bloody trying to. Feeling a little out of my comfort zone – SPIDERS! INSECTS! POISON! DEATH! – I ploughed on. Then it appeared. The waterfall was lit up by the sun. Brilliant. Not huge, not tall, but ours for the next few hours. I accidently trod on a pipe that was skimming water from the stream, probably to someone’s house miles away. I wouldn’t have thought they got a shower that night, judging by the amount of water spraying out. We played. Actually played; it was like being 10 and back in the woods near Burrells again. We all carved our names into the rock under the waterfall; we slid in and out of the cave behind the waterfall. The kids leapt about in their 2 quid flip-flops, clinging like limpets onto rocks and branches. I slid about without grace and was very British in my 90 quid, state-of-the art, moulded insoles Haglofs. Guess who fell over most. Guess who nearly went arse over tit 20ft up a boulder. I’m investing in some flip-flops.

A brilliant, fantastic day. This was why I had come here.

That evening, by way of a thanks, the Priest took us all out for tea. It was a thanks to the students for having the initiative to take me out (they were doing it independent of the school) and a thanks to me for…well…I’m not sure what. The Priest said something along the lines of “just being here and being yourself”. We all jumped in the back of the pick-up and the Priest drove us off to the restaurant. It was hot. Very hot.

We arrived at the restaurant; it was overlooking a slow-moving river (definitely a tributary of the Mekhong). My immediate thought turned to mosquitoes. Mosquitoes and crocodiles. But I wouldn’t let that ruin the night. We all sat on a bamboo platform, which extended out over the riverbank. It had a kind of thatched roof – probably made from some sort of dried leaf or other. The Priest ordered our food for us. Ten minutes later the waiter/owner’s 12 year old son brought out two buckets of fiery red hot charcoal. My immediate thoughts turned to fire. The bamboo platform WITH A TINDER DRY ROOF wouldn’t take much of a spill from these buckets of fire to go up in quite the inferno. But at least the heat may keep the mosquitoes off. I wasn’t exactly cold either. After about 3 minutes I was profusely sweating as we all sat about half a metre away from the FIRE BUCKETS. Next to come out were two large, metal objects that I can only describe as huge, slightly-flattened lemon squeezers. They fit neatly over the buckets of fiery death. About now I was sizing up whether death by fire or crocodile was more honourable – i.e. if these buckets go over I’m straight into that river. Women and children behind me.

Next up, two kettles. I wondered of we were to have tea before food. Alas no. The water in the kettles was poured on to the lemon squeezers on top of the death buckets. I soon realized that this water would boil in the ‘trench’ around the bottom of the lemon squeezers. So, now I had a choice – death by boiling water and/or fire and/or crocodiles. Great. The food came out – plates of meat, noodles and leaves. It all became clear. The meat was grilled on the raised bit of the giant lemon squeezers, whilst the noodles and leaves were boiled in the water in the trench. What a fantastic idea. Environmental Health in any local authority in the UK would be having fucking kittens at the thought of BOILING WATER, FIRE OR OTHER UNPLEASANT DEATH OR INJURY occurring to paying customers. I love Thailand.

Conscious of not scalding anyone with boiling water by accidently kicking the buckets, who may then leap up and knock another bucket flying, causing the platform to resemble a not-so-Towering Inferno (and no Paul Newman in sight), in turn leading to all of us leaping in to the yawning maws of hungry crocs, I sat crossed-legged for three hours not even going for a wee. I eventually regained the feeling in my legs just in time to squeeze them under my desk on Monday morning…

Monday passed by without event.

On Tuesday, in dire need of cash, I was driven to Chiang Khan and the nearest cash machine. I had a good wander around and, if you are thinking of visiting, I recommend you look in to stopping here. Chiang Khan Guesthouse and Loogmai Guesthouse seem to be the best of the bunch – with some fantastic, quirky places for the more adventurous. Drop mea line for more info. There are numerous cafes and a couple of bars. Very laidback and I think the town will be my next place of residence when I leave the Priest’s house. I’m thinking that’ll happen in January.

And that’s it for now. I hope it’s enough. For those clamouring for photos (hi mum!), the internet here isn’t really conducive to transferring photos to websites. I’m hoping to go to Loei in two weeks, where I may even get wireless internet in the hotel I hope to stop in (4-star…70 quid for the best SUITE in the place), so I’ll blitz it then.

Love to you all – good to hear from you Karen & Sarah!

TUNE OF THE WEEK

Jape – Floating (Prins Thomas Disko Miks)

STOOL UPDATE

Finally solid. Happy days.