So Long, and Thanks for All the Fruit

The great thing about cake is that it tastes good.
                                                - Rohit a.k.a. "Skeptikaul"

Note: I am heavy, heavy bored. I just finished a book, and I don't want to start another just yet. I don't want to do much of anything, which is ironic, because I have time now for everything. My teaching days in Thailand (and anywhere else for that matter) are over, and I have three weeks of pure nothing ahead of me. I never knew nothingness could be so pure. Now I understand why some girls gain so much weight: because they're heavy bored, or heavy stressed - it usually amounts to the same thing: you eat. 

And I'm heavy, heavy bored, so that's what I've been doing, with my co-teacher's help. She brings me tons of food: curries, noodles, chocolate milk, chocolate (good stuff like Lindt and Ritter Sport, not Thai crap). Why? I don't know, she just does. It's become the foundation of our relationship, in the same way that some relationships are built on abuse. She flagellates me with food, and it hurts, oh it hurts so good. I want to eat chocolate all the time now, just like I used to crave, for lack of a better term, "big-booty hoes" (scientific name: Hoeus bootylicious). Now I'm becoming one myself. A brown-skinned hoe for chocolate. A chocolate-covered hoe. I've even got some cream filling, hehe. 

But what I really want is for my friends back home to get engaged, so we can go cake-tasting. For anyone who doesn't know what cake-tasting is, rest assured, it is one of God's greatest gifts to man. It's when you go to various cake establishments and tell them you're looking for a wedding cake, and - voila - they proceed to give you free pieces of cake. Cake is one of the few things in life that makes me feel sexy as a man. That and dressing up in women's underwear, for which, dear reader, I beg your indulgence.

* * *

Time, that big bully, is teasing me. "What are you waiting for?" he smirks, looking down at me, arms folded. You! I screech. Move! But the path is narrow, and Time, like most bullies, is fat. He laughs; his gut, bouncing up and down, laughs with him. "Make me." The perennial schoolyard taunt. I can't let it go unanswered, or else I'll be called a sissy (which I am, but it's much less unpleasant if people don't know about it) until I'm 83, at which age most of my energy will be diverted towards trying not to piss myself. Which is why I'm writing this. I figure if I kill an hour or two, I'll have made Time budge an inch. Small victory you might say, but you have to remember: to a fat kid all movement, however slight, is equally unnecessary and thus equally tragic. That being said:

It's been over 2 years since I arrived in Thailand. I'll be leaving late March. How do I feel about it all? Sheeeeeeeeit. Let me explain by talking about Peace Corps and its slogans, both official and made-up.

The Toughest Job You'll Ever Love
This is the official one, and probably the least truthful. First of all, unless you're an ambitious uber-volunteer, our job - which consists of teaching English and community development - is not one most people would consider "tough." The job itself is striking in terms of how untough it actually is. True, before I dropped one of my schools, my job as a volunteer was very, very tough. But not in the sense that Peace Corps would like to believe: it was neither rigorous nor intellectually challenging.

It was tough because my Thai co-teacher was unprofessional, unwilling to shoulder her share of the workload, unhappy with her position at that school and overall sensationally derelict in her duties. It wasn't tough, it was a nightmare. And after enduring a full year of unrelenting frustration so that I could make a clean break without raising a stink in the community, Peace Corps made up some excuse and gently dumped her. And she went on her merry way to Chiang Mai, because she never wanted to live here to begin with. Win-win.

Now I teach exclusively with my other co-teacher, the one that brings me tons of food. Teaching ESL, concepts I learned in grade school and know by heart, is pretty much as easy as it sounds. Hell, some days it's even enjoyable, or at the very least comforting in its routine effortlessness. Which brings me to:

The Easiest Job You'll Ever Hate
I would guess this is pretty popular with PC volunteers everywhere. You'll notice it's just a waggish inversion of the official slogan. It's a little more accurate, and definitely captures the true spirit of volunteerism - the cynicism, the disappointment, the burnout. But again, it misses the point. I don't hate being a volunteer. In fact, I love it. Or have loved it. I'm ready to move on to something new, but I think Peace Corps was the best decision I ever made (in my admittedly short life).

While the economy back home was stuck in one of the worst recessions in history, I was learning about and living in a foreign culture. For free! And when I wasn't opening myself to new experiences in Thailand, I was traveling abroad - Vietnam, Myanmar, Cambodia, Philippines, India, Indonesia. I haven't been back to the States since I left. For the past 2 years, I've more or less been looking after myself, except when I've lived with Thai families: a cultural education in itself.

But most of all, I've had time: sumptuous, luxurious time, before it became a sadistic fat kid standing in my way. Back when it was a beautiful wood nymph - or big-booty hoe, if you will - bathing in a meadow, inviting me to play, telling me with her eyes: There is no rush. The slow ecstasy of time. I am a rounder person because of it, in a way that has nothing to do with all the chocolate I've been eating. What did that old Greek who schtupped little boys say? Know thyself? Yes, time enough even for that. Infinite, intimate time.

The Most Boring Job You'll Ever Tolerate
And then, of course, you get bored. What was exotic becomes mundane. The charm of being a PC volunteer, of traditional village life, of endless backpacking, once the novelty wears off, becomes a cage, an enclosure to be fled. The West romanticizes the East, and the East apes the worst of the West: its materialism, its greediness for technology and entertainment, its obsession with pop culture - while still holding on to its own superstitions and parochialism, its political ignorance and repressiveness.

Thailand, as much as I've come to appreciate it, is not my home, nor will it ever be. There are just too many ways in which this place, the people and the culture are fucked up, irretrievably and irrevocably fucked up for my arrogant, egalitarian, American taste. If you're a volunteer reading this right now, you know what I mean. And a job, in the end, is still a job. And teaching ESL to rural Thai primary students, however cute and innocent they may be, and occasionally rewarding it can be, does not stimulate or nourish me.

But I will miss this place. Not the beaches, or the mountains, or the pretty scenic waterfalls. But the people I've cared about: my co-teacher, my host family, my students. Lazy days at my house, reading, writing, napping. My evening ritual of PB&Js, sitting alone at the table with my Peter Pan peanut butter (unarguably better than Jif or Skippy), whole-wheat bread I bought from the local supermarket, and imported European jam. Slicing mangoes and thinking, Wouldn't it be grand to own an exquisite set of knives? Eating bloodred watermelon on a whitehot day.

And my favorite household chore, doing the laundry. Making sure I start early enough in the morning so that it has time to dry. Hanging my clothes on the line outside, my colorful boxer briefs on display for all to admire. Doing the laundry makes me feel rooted to this country in a way that nothing else does. Waiting for the water in the washer to rise to just the right level. Rinsing my soapy, sopping clothes and wringing them out before I fold them into the spinner. The conscious setting aside of time, the private significance I attach to every detail, the way my hands know what to do before my brain sends the signal - this is the closest I come to meditation. As I'm snapping still-damp T-shirts and adjusting my underwear so that they hang symmetrically on the line, I can almost grasp why someone would want to stay . . .

My porch, complete with hanging underwear.

I like my chocolate like I like my women.

The wonderful woman who feeds me.

My kids.

My host bro, with his hand in his shirt.

My host mama, clutching my love handles.

Thai food, I will miss you.

. . . All you need are friends, a decent job, and a decent girl. Or: friends, a decent job, and a decent book. The difference between a girl and a book: with a girl you hope you'll have a good time; with a book you know you'll have a good time.

And the climax is generally longer.