Glimpses of my Neighbourhood

I heard the Burmese hip-hop before I saw them. Two Burmese boys around 12 years old on a tri-shaw (a bicycle with three wheels at a platform between the front two, used for carrying people and goods around town). The boy in front held the music player; the one pedalling wore hand-made sunglasses fashioned out of discarded plastic bottles, tied on with a plastic string. He was imitating the moves of a gangster, pedalling in time to the music. They came back a while later, having switched places. The second boy pedaled with less style than his friend, who now sits poised in the front with his plastic glasses, the string streaming in the wind behind him.

As I was sweeping up my yard one day, a skinny old woman with a machete opened my front gate. When I looked up, she inquisitively smiled and pointed at my back yard. It was overgrown when I moved in, but over the course of my first few months at the house, it had grown into an unruly jungle. Speaking Thai and gesturing with the machete, she seemed to want to cut it down for me. I thought she was offering her services. I could see her house through my back fence and know that she’s pretty poor, so in my broken Thai I asked her how much. She smiled and shook her hand, which I took to mean “nothing”, and immediately went to work. She threw all the cuttings over the fence into her yard and left me with a clean garden, space for a washing line, and a huge patch of mint. The cuttings disappeared after a couple of days, but I was never sure what she did with all of it – until the garden started to grow back and I recognized the morning glory. She had probably cooked it and the other edible plants for her family and burned the rest.

A man rode past on a tri-shaw loaded up with crappy aluminum pots piled 4 meters high. I had no idea how he can see where he was going.

The day I bought a fridge, I put the box beside the neighbourhood garbage bin. As soon as I returned to my house and closed the gate, the woman two houses down stealthily snuck out of her house and took the box back to her yard, where it now stands with a pile of other cardboard boxes on her front porch.

Two lizards used to live in the trees of my front yard. Tan in colour, one looks like his front half was dipped in blue and the other in terracotta. They bob their heads up and down to some inaudible music or sit warming themselves in the sun. After the storm knocked down the teak tree, I worried about the fate of my lizard friends. But once in a while, Blue makes an appearance, posing on my back fence or the front wall of my yard.

A dark man with an orange shirt, probably from Arakan State in western Burma, walked past my house singing a Hindi song. When he saw me through the fence watching and smiling, he stopped long enough to ask, “How are you?” I gave him a thumbs up and he continued on his way, picking up the song right where he left off.

One of my neighbours sounds like a Burmese version of Mr. T, his voice echoing all down the street. When I finally saw him after months of living at my house, I was surprised to see that he was a small skinny man wearing only a longyi riding around on a child’s bicycle.

A calm morning spent reading on my porch was shattered by a Thai army helicopter flying low overhead. I was instantly reminded that the Burmese border is less than 7 kilometres away. The nearby jungles shelter armed ethnic groups fighting for basic rights in their own homeland in what is the longest running civil war in the world.

Memories of Cyclone Nargis

The rainy season has just started here in Thailand. We’ve had a good storm or two, but last week’s was one of the biggest storms I have ever experienced—second only to Cyclone Heta in Samoa in January 2005. Unfortunately, my colleagues and many in this town have lived through far worse, memories of which were stirred up by this one.

I was at work when the wind picked up all of a sudden, slamming the front door of the office shut. I went to stand in the doorway with some of my colleagues, revelling in the refreshing change of temperature—a monumental difference from the extreme temperatures here recently. Our relief quickly turned to worry as the gusts of wind became so strong it was a struggle to hold the door open. Leaves and branches were whipped down the street. When a kid ran out to play in the street, one of my Burmese colleagues screamed at him to get into his house and then burst into tears. She had been in Rangoon two years ago during Cyclone Nargis—the worst storm to ever hit Burma in which an estimated 138,000 people were killed and 2.4 million were affected.

As we tried to console our colleague, we watched in awe as the roofing on the construction site across from us lifted slightly and then was blown off piece by piece. The construction workers—notably lacking the steel-toed boots and hard hats of their colleagues in the West—huddled together under what was left of the roof. We called for them to join us, but they resisted until the very last minute when all the roofing was blown off. One worker carried with him a bunch of power tools, bundled together in a plastic rice sack, too valuable to leave behind. Another was nearly hit with flying roofing as he dodged the fallen power lines and branches on the street. There was a young boy with them who arrived in our compound shivering in soaking wet boxer shorts. We dried him off and put him in a dry shirt from the recent 10^th anniversary of the Assistance Association for Political Prisoners that fit him like a dress. He sat shaking and looking terrified until it was over, answering our questions unsurely and munching slowly on a banana.

When we finally emerged from the office, power lines were down all along the street, gutters had overflowed submerging the neighborhood in nearly a foot of water. We all decided to go home as there was little work to be done without electricity and internet.

I took the office motorbike to drop a colleague off at her house. As we drove through the town, it became clear by the chaos just how big the storm had been. The electricity was out everywhere. Police were directing traffic, already slowed by trees, branches, pieces of roofs and other debris in the street. I dreaded going home. I had left all my windows open and was sure my entire house would be a mess.

I could see from a distance that the main road to my house was blocked off, right about where my street entered it, so I took a back way. Even before turning onto my street, I could tell something bad had happened. Motorbikes were lined up with their passengers taking photos of the street—and specifically, my house. The giant teak tree that had stood in my front yard had come down, bringing with it the wall of my compound, the iron gate, another tree and the power lines to the whole street.

I approached in awe of the gaping mess. My young Thai neighbour paused from her sweeping to smile at what must have been shock on my face. After phone calls to my landlord and my friend to get the story from my neighbour, there was little left to do. So I started taking photos. I wandered down to the main road where I could now see that the blockage was because 20 power poles had fallen across the street. There was no way anyone could pass.

Before the sun went down, I hauled 15 buckets of water from the reservoir in my backyard to fill the cement tank in the bathroom. I have always complained that the water tank in Thai bathrooms made no sense. In a malaria and dengue zone such as Thailand, the still water is a perfect breeding zone for mosquitoes. But now I wished I had used it.

The sun set, I lit candles and finally sat down to rest. It was then that I realized how lucky I was. I still had a solid house and roof over my head, I had food to eat and I hadn’t been injured. The head of the construction site across from my office lost 20,000 baht worth of building supplies, the office of one organization had its windows smashed by flying branches, and many of the small wooden huts on the rice fields surrounding the town had been completely levelled. Nine people were killed from falling trees and power lines. But within a couple days, the electricity was back on and life had pretty much gone back to normal. In Burma, its been two years since Cyclone Nargis, and people still haven’t fully recovered their livelihoods and homes. The junta continues to harass and imprison aid workers and restricts the assistance trying to make its way into the country.

With the daytime temperature well over 40 degrees Celsius, I missed the fan that has been my constant companion for months. But remembering that people here and in Burma are much worse off, I was resolved to live without it for a couple nights without complaining. I settled down in the relaxing candlelight, grateful that it hadn’t been worse. The entire neighbourhood was dark, quiet, and uncharacteristically calm.

From the Himalayas to the Chao Praya

“From the Himalayas to the Chao Praya: Festival of Tibetan Spirituality, Arts and Culture” concluded today, the 51st Anniversary of the Tibetan National Uprising. The festival was organized by the Sathirakoses-Nagapradipa Foundation, a Thai NGO that works for social transformation through spiritual cultivation.

As the event was being organized, the Chinese Embassy was putting pressure on the Thai government to stop it. Organizers were told they could not include photos of Tibetan refugees or anything political. Days before the event began, Thailand denied a visa to the Dalai Lama’s sister, Jetsun Pema la, who was meant to give the keynote speech.

The first day of the festival saw a protest by Chinese people outside the Art Center. One of the volunteers recognized her aunty in the protest and went to ask her why she was there. The aunty replied that someone at the Chinese Embassy had asked them to be there.

The situation reminded me of the protest against China’s Olympic Torch as it passed through Bangkok in April 2008. Under pressure from China, the Thai government had threatened to deport any foreigners participating in the protest. And of course, a confrontational mob of Chinese showed up at the exact location of the Tibet protest, bent on overpowering us.

Despite China’s efforts, the festival was a huge success. Several hundred people attended each day to learn about Tibetan history and culture through photo exhibits, thangka painting demonstrations, and daily performances of songs and dances from different regions of the country by the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts (TIPA). A group of monks made sand mandalas and butter sculptures, occasionally glancing up to look back at the impressed crowds watching them. There were lectures by Thai scholars on Tibetan culture and religion, as well as by Geshe Damdul Namgyal, His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s translator, on the similarities between science and Buddhism. The Men-tsee-khang—the Tibetan Medical and Astrological Institute—brought displays of Tibetan medicine and had doctors on hand for those interested in trying it out for themselves.

Even without having an overtly political goal, one cannot separate politics from cultural and religious events such as this one. People wore their “Free Tibet” t-shirts and pins of the national flag proudly, and during the intermission at TIPA’s performances, Students for a Free Tibet’s poster commemorating 50 years of resistance was projected above the stage. In a recorded message presented at the beginning of each performance, His Holiness the Dalai Lama referred to the “bad situation” in Tibet and spoke of how he hoped this festival would bring together Tibetans and Thais, “Buddhist brothers and sisters” as he called them. In a political climate such as Thailand’s, protesting is not common unless it has to do with ousted Prime Minister Thaksin or the King. A festival such as this was the perfect first step to raising awareness in a country where China obviously holds a lot of weight. As any of us foreigners involved with the Tibet movement can attest, building familiarity with Tibetan culture invariably sows the seeds of support for the political struggle.

Goodbye Bangkok

My last two nights in Bangkok were experiences on opposite sides of the infinite spectrum of those to be had in the City of Angels. In my mind, these two nights summed up my experiences and opinions of the crazy place I’ve called home for the last eight months.

On Friday, the girls from work took me out to see a bar run by a former Communist politician with house bands that play so-called “Thai Cock Rock.” I was looking forward to seeing a live band – especially with the promise that they didn’t play the usual blend of Thai pop rock. As the only white people in the place, everyone turned to watch as we walked in and sat down. According to Thai drinking customs, we ordered a bottle of whiskey and mixers. The bottle comes with a graduated sticker down the side – if you don’t finish your bottle, you write your name on it and get assigned a card with a number on it so that you can claim your bottle the next time you are back at the bar! It also comes with a server that hovers around your table, ready to top up your glass as soon as it drops below half full. This made it virtually impossible to gage how many drinks you’ve actually had! When the band finally took the stage, they convincingly looked like cock rockers. But unfortunately, they played the same not-so-exciting Thai pop rock that is every where else, with some extra guitar solos. The girls had a great time dancing (exciting the Thai men way more than they were aware) and I had a great time representing the Maple Leaf with my Canadian colleague, drinking way more than anyone else, and soaking it all in.

My last night was virtually the opposite. It was Loy Krathong, a festival where Thais float beautiful offerings made of banana leaves, flowers, incense, candles and money, apologizing for their sins and asking for good luck in the next year. Walking around the lake at Chatuchak Park, the city seemed so calm and beautiful. This was the beauty I first found wandering around Wat Po, but that is so easily forgotten when getting lost in a taxi and not being able to communicate, or getting out of breath walking up a flight of steps, or being constantly stared at by people in my own neighborhood. It was a perfect way to end my time there and reconciled me with the City of Angels.

In my darkest moments, I couldn’t wait to get out of Bangkok – the noisy, polluted city that I just didn’t click with. But in the end, I found myself not wanting to say goodbye… not so much to the city, but to the people I met, the immensely rewarding job I was blessed with, and moments of history in the Burma movement that I witnessed and in which I participated.

Initiation to the Rainy Season

I witnessed today the biggest and scariest thunder storm of my life. I am normally the kind of person who watches in wonder and is amazed at the force of thunder, lightning and intense downpours. But I admit, I was a little frightened by this one! The thunder cracks were deafening and the rolling ones seemed to last for minutes. The rain came down in buckets and in jets from the roof, flooding the entire garden. And all of this lasted for almost half an hour! My first GIANT Thai thunderstorm!

Homesickness and Mae Sot

It’s a beautiful drive out of the flat Bangkok area, past huge termite mounds and ancient igneous intrusions, and up into the mysterious foggy jungle-covered mountains. I descended on the other side, out of the fog and into the interesting border town. Mae Sot is a miniature version of Thailand, where the cultural diversity is so strongly felt because of the concentration of people, but which is granted an unmistakable Burmese feel by the golden pagodas, the men in longyis and women with thanaka on their faces. The town is buzzing with NGO workers and volunteers, who fill the restaurants and bars with interesting discussions of their work (especially over some wine at Canadian Dave’s) or smile as they ride by on their bicycles. Every time I visit, I meet the most amazing Burmese activists who have risked so much to be there. And who continue to put themselves at risk of being arrested, fined or even deported in order to attend capacity-building and advocacy trainings.

On my second trip to the town in 3 weeks, I discovered that the hotel where I was staying at was also the final stop for refugees being resettled overseas. All day long, there were people sitting at the entrance of the large hall, looking longingly into the distance and the mysterious future that awaits them. I know the resettlement process is long and these people have spent years waiting, but this is the last time they will be within eyesight of their country. They are approaching the moment when they will have to leave all familiarity behind and embark on a journey for which they are undoubtedly not prepared, despite the efforts of organizations like the IOM, UNHCR and IRC – for who is ever ready for such an uprooting? In comparison to the whirlwind of emotions they must be feeling, the homesickness that has overwhelmed me in the last couple days now makes me feel selfish and weak. I come from such a sheltered life and a country of remarkable freedom – free from soldiers, bullets, landmines, hunger, systemic rape, torture, forced labour and displacement. I left my home voluntarily and can go back whenever I want. As I watch these people, my ability to return to my comfortable life surrounded by the people and the country I love begins to seem like an excessive luxury that these people don’t have. They are leaving the life and everyone they know behind, and it will likely be years before they can come back. I can’t begin to imagine what homesickness must feel like when you know you can’t go home.

Bangkok Parties

Party note #1: I took Losang out for birthday drinks while he was here, and after our first bar closed, we decided to check out the only other club on the block that was still open. Little did we know it was a “girls’ club,” as one of the guys there told us – it was a gay bar with a transvestite show later on! I thoroughly enjoyed myself, watching all the gay guys check out my very straight friend, smiling at the transvestites, and getting hugs from gay guys welcoming me to the place and asking about my “friend.” I even ended up acting as a bodyguard for Losang so that he wouldn’t get his ass grabbed again! I guess one time was plenty for him!! Besides the hilarity of being there with a straight guy who was really uncomfortable with the advances on him, I was really struck with the strong sense of community. I have been to a couple of gay clubs in Montreal – good places to go dancing with the girls and not have to be annoyed by guys hitting on you! – but this was really different. Everyone was so into it and supportive and treating the “girls” doing their show on the stage like they were fabulous divas. It was really interesting and touching. I guess it makes sense in a place like Thailand where transgendered people are so widely accepted anyways.

Party note #2: Tourists are crazy! The white people in the clubs on Khao San Road tend to think that because they are on holiday, they can do anything. They grab random people, drink way too much, wear traditional Thai hats while pole-dancing on stage, say retarded things, and hit on prostitutes without knowing it (for more on this phenomenon, see Party note #3). There is a difference between having a great time and just being stupid! There are times when I am almost ashamed to be considered one of the white, horny, obnoxious, and rude tourist masses.

Party note #3: I hate to say it, but some of the stereotypes of Bangkok are not that exaggerative of the reality. Sex is for sale everywhere, from covert dens labeled “massage parlours,” to the Patpong area, to most nightclubs. On one of my latest outings, a coworker who has been here for a couple of years engaged me in a game: he would give me 10 baht for every prostitute I correctly picked out at the nightclub. It was really hard! First of all, Thai girls really enjoy dressing up when they go out. I’m sorry if I offend anyone, but a lot of the girls dress just like the prostitutes. Any guy who has been to a club in Thailand has surely been hit on by a prostitute, with or without knowing it. And I think that a lot of guys probably have stories of going home with a girl, only to find out after sex that he has to pay for it… I’ve heard a couple of stories of just that happening! Anyways, it took me a while, but after closely watching them interact with several guys, I found about 6. And I made friends with a couple of them who kept dragging me to go dance. I think they felt sorry for me, standing there alone. Little did they know that I was quite well entertained – I’m sure it’s been done, but an anthropological study of the sex industry in Thailand would be very interesting and very fun to undertake! That is, until you get into the sad reality of girls being forced to be prostitutes and the violence and disease that I’m sure go along with such an industry.

Party note #4: Thankfully there are some fun places to hangout, with a significantly lower probability of hitting on someone of the wrong gender or profession. Last weekend I discovered the Saxophone Pub, a smoky lodge-type bar with live music every night. The night that I was there started off with a cool blues band covering some Hendrix before bringing a rasta on stage to sing a couple of songs. They were followed by T-bone, a huge 10-member band that was playing a really impressive mix of ska, jazz, funk, and soul, with a touch of latin influence… pretty much everything! It was totally wicked and just the kind of place I was looking for :) Definitely better than the prostitute pick-up bars!!

An Improving Tour Guide

It’s interesting trying to show someone around a city that you don’t know that well yourself! We got lost way too many times, but I think I managed to show Losang a few fun and interesting parts of Bangkok. In the process, I also learned a lot about this crazy city that I call home for the time being.

I finally got to see Wat Arun, a temple that I’ve been admiring from afar since I got here. But my favorite stop with Losang was a Muay Thai fight – you’re right, Owen, it really is wicked! Fighting is definitely not my thing, but this really is a cultural experience that should not be missed. Each match starts off with the fighters praying and doing dances to their ancestors and teachers, before they proceed to elegantly kick and punch the crap out of each other. Some of the matches were brutally hard to watch, but thankfully the crowd was just as entertaining as the fighters! The matches started off to a calm but attentive audience. The people betting on the fight were occupied analyzing each kick and punch, deciding on which fighter they were going to put their money. As the rounds progressed the crowd got rowdier, yelling with the landing of a punch on their chosen opponent or moaning when their guy got kicked. In the midst of the rising tension, the gamblers started calling to one another and waving their fingers (in what I assume are the amounts of their bets). Passive watchers rapidly joined the vocal and passionate masses. And like a rollercoaster, it ended way faster than it started, only to begin again with the next match.

One of the matches was between a Canadian and a British man ­– cultural appropriation caught in the act! Just like the Thai fighters, the two Westerners started their match with the traditional prayers and dances and the anthropologist in me couldn’t help but wonder if these customs actually meant anything to them. At first, I thought that the crowd would not really be into this fight – the highlight of the evening was the previous match, plus it’s two white guys! I was immediately struck by how different their fighting style was to that of the Thai fighters. The Westerners were a lot bigger and clumsier, fighting mostly with punches; the Thai fighters were much more elegant and were equally good at punching and kicking their opponent. After the first two rounds, the crowd definitely got into it – the white guys were surprisingly putting on a good show. I even stood up in support of the Canadian, much to the amusement of the betting men in our area! In the end the Canadian lost, after way too many punches to the head. I’m really surprised that he managed to walk out of there at all, but I guess dignity would have been an important factor.

So, I’ve been initiated into the world of Muay Thai and being a tour guide… and I’m ready for my next tourist :)

Intellectual Property?

It’s amazing how reading the newspaper everyday gives you new insight and depth to a place that would otherwise be missed. Although I am a long way from understanding politics in Thailand, I am starting to learn more about the coup and constitution-drafting efforts, the problem in the South and also about activists in the country—some of whom staged a wicked demonstration Saturday night on Democracy Monument.

In the last couple of weeks here, there has also been a big uproar over intellectual property rights and drug companies. Thailand recently announced compulsory licensing for all AIDS and heart disease-related drugs (including of the generic forms of those that are patented). The decision was taken in an effort to make drugs cheaper and therefore more accessible to the people who need them, and has since been proven to do just that. Pharmaceutical companies have been forced to lower their prices to compete with generic drugs. However, under the influence of its powerful pharmaceutical lobby, the US has put Thailand on its “Priority Watch List” due to the country’s supposed lack of respect for patents. While the US argues that Thailand has violated WTO’s Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property agreement (TRIPs), Thailand says that this decision was the only way for the country’s patients to access the invaluable drugs. This argument seems to come down to a debate between two ideals: intellectual property versus the individual’s right to affordable drugs. While I support the principle of intellectual property per se, I don’t think that upholding this notion should come at the expense of potentially millions of people in developing countries.

Another case of intellectual property rights that caught my attention is that of yoga. In February, India announced that it was creating a digital database of traditional knowledge, everything from ayurvedic remedies to construction techniques to yoga. This raises essential questions about the nature of traditional (or indigenous) knowledge and whether, when, or if it should be considered public knowledge. If it is public knowledge, then how can it be eligible for patent? India shouldn’t have to fight battles to revoke patents on their traditional knowledge, such as their legal skirmish over the US patent for the medical properties of turmeric, which India claimed to be common knowledge in its households. The US’s tendency to claim whatever it wants as its own is, however, making the protection of traditional knowledge necessary. In 2004, the US granted an Indian-American yogi a patent for a series of 26 asanas, despite the fact that they are a part of a tradition that is over 5,000 years old!

Is patenting traditional knowledge, as advocated by TRIPs, the best route to take in order to protect it? Would it be more effective to treat traditional knowledge as cultural heritage or as a collective human right? I guess that would depend on whether the economic implications of that knowledge are deemed to be more important than its intrinsic value and its cultural significance. In the case of the US and yoga, the patents, copyrights and trademarks are safeguarding a $3 billion industry. The US has obviously placed the importance on economic gains (as it did with the case of compulsory licensing of AIDS drugs in Thailand). One has to wonder what spiritual ramifications the patenting of traditional knowledge such as yoga would have for Indians themselves, and for the practice of yoga all over the world. After all, the notion of a universal mind—part of Indian beliefs, in general, and yoga—does not really seem to fit with the notion of intellectual property. In order to protect the intrinsic nature of yoga as a belief system, would this be an instance where the protection of this traditional knowledge should be treated as a cultural heritage or a collective human right? As a human rights activist, I hate to say it… but maybe money and patents speak louder than the more idealistic claims to cultural heritage and collective human rights.

I hope someone can prove me wrong.

I am all of these: Consumer. Invader. Crusader. Seducer. Self-hating Westerner. Buffoon.

A Traveller’s Response to “There’s No Such Thing As Eco-Tourism” by Anneli Rufus.

I agree: colonialism isn’t dead. The dreaded word has crossed my mind on numerous trips in the past, but never more powerfully than in the last 5 months that I have been living in Asia. My relations to those around me have undeniably been affected by the notions of the consumer, invader, crusader, seducer, self-hating Westerner, and buffoon, all of which play into today’s form of colonialism.

I am a consumer of culture. I pay to see traditional dances and puppet shows, and to enter temples. I search out and relish new places, new experiences, and new foods. I may not buy typical souvenirs, but I avidly consume these new experiences. Similar to the way a fire consumes things, I have also destroyed the cultural essence of interactions by taking photos. As an anthropology student, I became really interested in the duality of photography as an art form and also as an ethnographic technique. While I can’t deny that a picture may be able to capture a ceremony or emotion, I have found that it often removes the human interaction that might have taken place in that moment. When I started being approached by tourists from Java asking to have their pictures taken with me, I understood just how alienating it can be to have a camera pointed in your face. All of a sudden, I was the odd one, the “other,” deemed to be so different and interesting that the mere act of me being there at the same time as them needed to be caught on film. I was really uncomfortable with the cameras pointed my way, openly or covertly. How then, can I turn around and expect people to let me take pictures of them? I can learn so much more about them (and they can learn more about me) by watching and asking the right questions.

I am an invader. This is not my place, and it never will be. Westerners in Bali may be able to speak Bahasa Indonesia, many become Hindu and eat local food, they may even marry a Balinese. But their skin will always be a different colour, and they will always be seen as a tourist once they step outside of their group of friends or the banjar (community) in which they live. I even found myself and my friends making that erroneous judgment. When I saw other white people, I instinctively thought that they were just tourists. It’s as if, because I lived there and hung out with mostly Balinese friends, I didn’t consider myself a tourist anymore. I have found that expats here in Thailand do the same thing. Loud, obnoxious and inconsiderate tourists make the farangs (foreigners) living here sink down in their chairs, and exchange embarrassed glances with one another, as if they are different than the tourists. You can feel this sense of superiority at the Foreign Correspondents Club in Bangkok every night, where expats mingle amongst themselves. They seem to think that they have adapted to and joined the local culture, and that this distinguishes them from the tourists, making them less of an invader. A wolf who sincerely considers himself a sheep is indeed an interesting phenomenon.

I am a crusader and a seducer, even if indirectly. My way of life and fundamental beliefs about society and relationships come through very differently in another country. In Bali, I got the distinct impression that people my age are extremely envious of what they see as the Western lifestyle and the values that entails. They want it for themselves at the expense of their traditional way of life. They want to be free and independent and travel the world, rather than having the responsibility of taking care of their families and contributing to the banjar. So while I haven’t directly and vehemently promoted my beliefs, they are being adopted by the younger generations. I haven’t tried to seduce locals to my way of life, but I can see it happening.

I am a self-hating Westerner. In the face of my Balinese friends’ deeply rooted religious beliefs, I felt spiritually confused and almost envious that their spirituality was intertwined with their daily lives. An argument with a guy named Wayan at the local drinking hole makes an excellent case in point for my own spiritual uncertainty. One night, Wayan said that Rastafari was a fashion style and not a religion. Amongst a bunch of self-proclaimed Rastas who weren’t rising to the defense of their beliefs, I felt compelled to argue the opposite: Rastafari has a strong biblical and historical basis like any other religion, with deep beliefs that influence how people live their lives. Some Rasta beliefs, such as dreadlocks, have been adopted by some people who may not know the deeper meaning of the symbols that they wear. My main argument was that religion cannot be reduced to what a person looks like on the outside, but is more fundamentally about what is in his or her heart. I told Wayan that to me, he didn’t especially look like a Hindu, sitting there in jeans and a t-shirt. At this point, he got really mad and started accusing me of being a stupid white person who knew nothing about religion, and especially nothing about Hinduism. He said that I didn’t believe in any god and the more I learned about other religions, the more confused I got. I was taken aback by the anger in his voice when he said this, but I totally agreed with Wayan. Despite that, there was no way for me to convince him that trying to understand and learn from different religions was acceptable position for me to be in. I may have finally won over Wayan and everyone listening when I said that I believed god was in everything, but his point had been made: a lot of Westerners are spiritually confused and I don’t think that any of us really like to admit it.

I am a also a buffoon. From the moment I stepped into Thailand, I have felt like a stupid white person – and nowhere nearly as much as in taxis. Most taxi drivers here do not speak English, so when I go out on my own, I carry along a little map my coworkers had made with my address and all the street names written in Thai. Since I cannot speak Thai, I thought this would solve the problem of communicating with taxi drivers. On my first time going home alone from a market which I had already been to several times with coworkers, I got into a taxi and showed the driver my map. He nodded and smiled so I thought he understood and knew where he was going. After our first wrong turn, I told him he should have gone the other way. He said something that seemed like “this is a better way,” so I gave him the benefit of my doubt. After 10 minutes and passing several large overpasses, I knew that this was not a better way and after a similar experience in Kuala Lumpur, I assumed that he was taking me the wrong way to make me pay more money. I held my cool as long as I could because I had been warned that Thais think it’s funny when Westerners get upset. But eventually I told him that I knew this way was more expensive and that this was a bad thing to do to farangs. He said something in Thai and kept driving. After an hour on what should have been a 5-minute trip, I realized that he wasn’t trying to scam me and that we were lost because neither of us could understand one another. I must have mispronounced my street name – there are 5 different tones on vowels in Thai! – and on top of that he couldn’t even read the Thai on the map I showed him. This has taught me that it is totally unrealistic to think I could live here for the next 9 months without having to learn such a hard language. However, people here who are learning Thai have pointed out the catch-22: while I want to learn so that I’m not such a stupid buffoon, my undoubtedly horrible pronunciation will only make me more of a buffoon as I learn!

All of this begs the question: why do we have this quest to travel and to go on so-called “adventure” trips? I think that we, as a society, have become bored. And I don’t just mean Westerners. In my experience teaching English online, I met hundreds of Asians who loved traveling just as much as Westerners. I think that we are not happy with our lives at home so we feel that we need to leave in order to get our heart beating again. In a world that so highly values commodities and personal accomplishments, traveling also gives us more bragging rights.

The more I’ve traveled, the more I’ve realized how lucky I am and how great I have it back home. I am privileged to have grown up in a society that allows me to study as much and whatever I want at school and that doesn’t limit the importance of my life as a woman to the house I keep, how happy my husband is and how many healthy children I have.

Does that mean that I will never travel again? Probably not. But these ideas definitely change how I travel. Being in another country, I am aware every day that I am a part of a new form of colonialism that makes me a consumer, invader, crusader, seducer, self-hating Westerner, and buffoon, all in one. It’s all part of the humbling experience of trying to understand another culture, whether you are passing through as a traveler or are trying to settle in.