Sundy-go-to-meetin'

My Sunday morning was spent at a local fellowship about a ten minute walk from the YMCA. Earlier in the week, I had found out about it through my cooking instructor. My team-mate and I were supposed to go together, but she ended up being delayed at the airport while volunteering to meet some incoming conference leadership and VIPs. Other foreigners eventually showed up. The service was in Thai, but I had a translator -- a woman whom I met several days beforehand when I visited ELIC's new Chiang Mai office location. She works there part-time.

After the service, I was invited to stay for lunch. Of course I said yes. The worship center became makeshift cafeteria as seats were re-positioned to form several little groups of people eating and laughing together. The meal was prepared and served buffet style in the adjoining room.

Once finished with lunch, I thanked my hosts and strolled back to the Y, the sunshine draping itself on my shoulders. I was recounting the residual effects of meeting two local believers within just a few days of each other, both of whom are members of the same fellowship. Nothing like international travel makes certain communities feel so strategically knit together.

Basil

We could’ve signed up for any cooking class that’s offered in Chiang Mai. They all seem to provide the same caliber of experience with some including a bike ride through local organic farms. “But I don’t want to pay for a 30 minute cycle through a lettuce patch,” I told my team-mate and cooking partner, “I want to cook.”

The flyers, stuffed in cascading displays on every street corner’s tour offices, competed for my attention. Colors bled into colors. Text became endless as each pamphlet touted itself as, “CHIANG MAI'S OLDEST AND MOST ESTABLISHED.” I picked up a small handful and sat down to make the final decision and, ultimately, a reservation.

I settled on “Basil,” whose simple logo against a white backdrop struck a chord of favor in my graphic eye. The menu on the inside looked as good as any other: choose a dish from among every course of a seven-course meal, and the price was competitive with other any other in town. Class size was limited to six, and I knew that was an advantage over some of the other companies whose sessions could hold as many as 8-10.

So I called and made a reservation for two. We were picked up yesterday morning by a young man driving an open-bed truck. We climbed in the back and settled on two benches, chatting with the tan delicate woman who had introduced herself as the owner and teacher. Her name is Boom.

“So how many people will join us today?” I asked.

“One,” she answered, “that we’re going to pick up now.”

Once we arrived at the guest house, Boom disappeared into the lobby and returned a few minutes later saying that the client had double-booked his schedule and had gone off on an elephant trek, instead. I tried to conceal my selfish pleasure.

From there, we continued with a truck ride to the local market to pick up fresh ingredients. On the way, with strands of hair flapping lightly against smiling faces, I asked Boom how often she holds class. “Six days a week. I don’t work on Sundays. I’m a C and I go to a service on Sunday mornings.” I didn’t dare look at my partner, but I knew that we were both thinking the same thing. We asked her a few more questions before revealing our mutual faith. She grinned broadly when we told her, and then she informed us that it was the driver - her boyfriend of five years - who convinced her with his lifestyle. We liked him immediately.

The rest of the day was spent back at the “school,” which is the first floor of her home. We cooked leisurely; with two students, the rush to finish by 3 pm was no longer an issue. After completing each dish, we would enjoy it at the dinner table with Boom asking and answering questions about whatever topic attached itself to our conversation. We discussed peppers, markets, rainy seasons, Jack Johnson, faith, and things I don’t even remember.

Boom told us a story that I will remember for a long time. She comes from a Buddhist family, and her conversion caused no small amount of unrest for her parents. They asked her to abandon her new faith, but she refused. Right around the time of her baptism, her mother had a dream in which a man with dark hair and a white robe appeared to her. He was standing next to a river, and looking farther downstream, her mother could see Boom standing near the edge. She became terrified, thinking that her daughter would drown, and she began crying out, “Someone save my daughter!” The man in white calmly said to her, “Do not be afraid. Be calm. She is not in danger. She is starting her new life now.”

Boom’s mother awoke from the dream in tears and called her immediately to say that she knew things would be different for her daughter. Boom ended the story with, “My mother lives in the countryside and doesn’t have so much access to news about me. To simple country people, dreams are powerful. So that dream really had an impact on her.”

When the day came to an end, Boom’s boyfriend drove the three of us back to our hotel. By that time, we had already agreed to attend the Sunday service with her this weekend. As it turns out, the translator for the service is a woman whom I met the other day when I visited the newly opened Chiang Mai office owned by my employer.

Saying goodbye to Boom, I marveled at the odds of not only finding her amid the plethora of cooking schools (hers not even being one that’s well known), but also of being given the unique conversation that could only happen among believers.


















me extracting coconut milk



above and below: bananas dredged in flour, sugar and sesame then fried to a perfect golden brown and eaten with coconut ice cream





above and below: papaya salad






Left: Puy (Boom's assistant who emigrated here from Burma after walking for three days to reach the border. She speaks little to no English, and we were told that her smiles with us were a rarity.)
Middle: Boom
Right: Boom's boyfriend, who not only drives a shuttle for her school but is also a computer programmer

Sunday night market

Chiang Mai is famous for its walking markets. One takes place every night in the downtown area, rain or shine, holiday or no. A larger market is held every Sunday night near the entrance of the old brick wall that used to enclose the city. Artisans, peddlers, tourists and locals abound. It's an inundation to the senses as sights, smells, textures, colors, light and shadows collide.


my dinner: kebabs








making popsicles

YMCA

Reasons why I stay at the YMCA in Chiang Mai:
1. It's clean.
2. The staff is friendly.
3. It's not near the downtown bars and pervert caves.
4. It's got lots of nearby shopping and cafes.
5. The little store across the street sells the best mango and coconut rice.
6. I get to see several friends who are in the same building for graduate classes that are conducted prior to our conference.


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Notice that there's not a separation between the shower and the rest of the bathroom? Very common in Asia -- affectionately called a "shoilet."


The essentials: water, Dr. Pepper, Ginger Ale, locally made whole wheat pita, locally made baba ghanoush (other soft drinks stocked by hotel)


the view from my room

Warorot Market

There's a type of loneliness that lends itself to meeting new people. It's part of the contract when you sign up for international living: moments and days when a person is flanked by no one, walking hand in hand with just the outside air, mind sharing conversation with Maker, marveling at people and places with unknown stories. It’s the disappearance of daily babble that awakens the sensitivity toward listening and watching.

I can think of no better example than yesterday. It started with a 4 a.m. alarm and a 5 a.m. trip to Warorot Market, a place whose early morning colors and flavors are appreciated only by locals and a few bleary-eyed foreigners with cameras in hand. My friend and I were classified by the latter. After a few hours, we had expended our energy and parted ways. The rest of the day yielded to whatever happened along. I had no loyalty, whatsoever.

A two-hour Thai massage downtown led me to justify a meal at my favorite Chiang Mai restaurant due to my proximity. I caught a songtao to the city gate, and when I stepped into the back cab, there was a young Buddhist monk sitting opposite me, barefoot with a shaved head and dressed in a bright orange tunic. Some monks keep to themselves, but he was one with a quick smile and an immediate question. “Where are you from?” he grinned, his youthful curiosity making him look even younger than I first believed. I answered, “America,” and then countered with the same question. “Vietnam,” he said, “but I live here now. My father is Vietnam and my mother is Chiang Mai.” We continued our conversation until he jumped out of the back to continue his barefoot walk to the temple grounds.

There were no more small tables left open by the time I arrived at the restaurant, so I was seated at a larger table occupied by a couple who seemed to be around 10 years my senior. I made the move into conversation -- after all, we were sharing eating space and condiments. Once they found out that I teach in China, they told with me that they, too, are returning there. They will both be in language school in Sichuan. People who do what we do and why we do it have an internal ability to recognize each other, and we unspeakingly knew that we were family at that table. We finished our meals with reciprocated blessings toward each other.

As I counted out my bills at the counter, I spoke with the Israeli lady who owns the restaurant. She knows exactly when we (ELIC) show up every year; she counts on it. Her English is ribboned with a Middle Eastern accent, and I love how she shrugs her shoulders when she talks. She wants to retire soon and move back to Jerusalem; she says that she’s tired. I asked if that would mean the end of her place in Chiang Mai. She assured me that her partner would keep it open and running.

As I walked out to the busy street, I caught a songtao back to my hotel. A few stops later, the driver picked up two Asian men with greying hair. I glanced over at them and could tell that they weren’t Thai: too formally dressed. They weren’t Chinese, either: their voices were quieter. I looked at their waistlines and figured that by the severity of how high they had pulled their trousers, they were Japanese. And I was right. Their English was very basic, so I kept it simple. “What city in Japan? Tokyo?” I asked. “No, Nagoya,” said the more proficient of the two. My eyes lit up. “I lived in Nagoya!” Their eyes widened and they replied with the standard, “Ohhhhwwww?” which rises in pitch and is undoubtedly Japanese. We traded some brief sentences about the former company that employed me there, and they recognized the name immediately. They even knew the small city of Handa in which I had worked.

The songtao dropped me off, first, so I said farewell to them in Japanese and returned to my room. Once reclined in the bed, my body released itself to the retro effects of such an early morning coupled with a Thai massage in which my muscles were pulled in directions that wouldn’t register on a compass. As I drifted off to sleep, I remembered that the night prior, I had asked for moments in which to be a good ambassador of my faith. Despite a day that guaranteed little companionship, my request was answered through unexpected appointments with a host of strangers.