Listening to the Silences: A Letter Home
Laurie Moberg
Where you are, the days should be getting regularly chillier with the brown earth aching for the promise of winter's snow. Where I am, the days absorb heat like a perpetually unsaturated sponge and my sweat-dampened clothes attest to it each day. Thai people call this the "cold season" but our definitions of cold mark the extremes of the spectrum.
Where you are, the animals are rushing to the security of their hibernation spaces and most of the birds have said goodbye. Where I am, I share shower space with a gecko the color pistachio pudding. I used to call it Rusty, but this morning, I reevaluated the name, changing it from Rusty to Lela as I became acquainted with her child, Mel.
Where you are, the morning is just crescendoing into day with broad strokes of busy people with crisscrossing paths. Where I am, the painter of the darkness is putting the final starry touches on the night sky and peace has fallen over the house with a sighing silence, a silence that urges me to write.
Yes, I live in a house now. For over 3 weeks, I have been part of a Thai family as "Lau-LEE" the phii saaw (older sister). This derivation of my name became the official Thai version the first day I attended Tae Kwon Do with my little brothers, Win and Two. As Two stumbled across the gym floor in a series of wild kicks calling "Laulie Laulie Laulie" with his jubilant 6-year-old smile, I couldn't help but laughingly accept this title and catch him as he nearly toppled from the exuberance of his journey. Since then, I've become used to hearing my name pronounced that way, paying careful attention when I hear it surface among the music of the Thai my family speaks in circles around me.
Whether my name is part of it or not, the Thai language does weave an intricate tapestry above my head, just beyond the reach of my fingertips. After our first day of language "boot camp" (as we came to lovingly refer to our first two weeks of intensive training), I was certain I would never communicate with anyone in this language as luscious and thick as hot fudge. Vowel sounds with two variations based on the duration of the sound, five tones, classic "b" and "p" sounds and then something in between - "a 'b' with the spirit of a 'p'" so the Ajans kept telling us. Throughout the first two weeks I left class in a confused and frustrated stupor. Despite my feelings of utter incomprehension, I was determined to somehow mix my voice with the language flowing like the waters of an un-dammed river. Sometimes I can grab a thread of conversation and let it carry me forwards to a new spot in the river. And sometimes I can put forth my own expression though it may only be adding a dismal and out of place gray or brown (sii thaw or sii naamtaan) to the otherwise intricate and lovely language weaving.
Still, my own mousy brown has provided access to many intriguing interactions. One of my favorite involves a sii-loo driver named Nan. Sii-loos are Chiang Mai's primary taxi system. With two benches in the truck-box and an extended/modified cover system, these taxis would fall under the category of "unsafe" in the US - the type of vehicle arrangement you might enjoy, but you likely would not tell you mom about. In Thailand few people think twice before climbing in, or, in crowded situations, holding on to the railings outside. I'm not sure how many sii-loos actually circulate through Chiang Mai, but it is uncommon to walk more than 10 minutes along any street with traffic without encountering at least one; typically you'll be accosted by as many as 15 in that span of time. Charging by person, drivers like groups and prefer to stay close to the center of the city.
That said, I was dismayed but not entirely surprised one Friday night, to be walking for 45 minutes before I finally boarded a sii-loo. This is not from a shortage of sii-loos along Suthep Road, but from a lack of willingness. I'm not the most aggressive sii-loo haggler but I do have the language capacity to bargain and charter my way home. "Bay Chiang Mai Land may kha?" - the simple question of if a driver would take me - left me in the thick leaded exhaust of many trucks as I live a little further away than most drivers like to go.
After crossing the busy one-way street access at the edge of the moat, I finally hailed a sii-loo willing to take me. I didn't even try to bargain, I simply accepted. To my surprise, the young driver asked me to sit in the front with him; even more surprising, however, is that I actually understood his Thai request! A little nervously, I settled into the front seat. and watched the driver begin to retrace the journey I had just completed on foot as he took the people in the back to their destination near the University. As we drove, I realized he had actually kindly protected me from the somewhat loud conversation of the men in the sii-loo and from being accosted by their cigarette smoke - how truly thoughtful! But being thoughtful was not his only purpose - he wanted to chat. Since I had arranged the ride in Thai, he naturally started speaking in rapid, fluent Thai, the weaving becoming a shroud over our interaction before it had really started. Responding to what must have
been a satisfactorily dumbfounded look on my pink-cheeked and sweaty face, he slowed and used only the key words of his message. In this way, we were able to communicate adequately.
Yet sometimes, the language itself isn't as important as the message conveyed. One Saturday afternoon, I chanced off the beaten path and through the back gate of Wat Chedi Luang for my second visit to the Buddhist Temple. To cool myself from the aggressive midday sun, I settled at a table in the shady corner of the property. and realized I was in the Monk Chat space. Out of the corner of my bleary eye, I saw the saffron robe nearing the table. I alerted myself in time to give the customary wei before I had offended this follower of Buddha. His first few words dissipated my concern - he spoke English. In the next 30 minutes, this educated monk explained to me the significance of what he believes, responding patiently to what must have seemed like elementary questions about Buddhism. In the next hour, he accepted my more socially pressing questions: how has the role of Buddhism, especially the sangha, changed in the face of a modernizing country? why does he speak English and what does this say about the changing practices of monks? I was glad that English could be our shared medium; in Thai I might only have learned what food he likes
to eat.
At other times, language is irrelevant entirely. Several weeks ago, my first weekend in Thailand, we climbed nearby Doi Suthep. It is an incredible mountain and despite the heat (which was intense) and the discomfort of our matching purple polos (even matching sizes - large, too
large) that felt more like cardboard than cloth, I truly loved the walk in the mountains. Yes, there are some varieties of tree that might resemble this maple or that elm tree from the familiar Minnesota landscape. But intermingled are varieties new to my eyes - trees with drapes of flowers in various colors, trees with leaves the size of small children. My favorite are the trees with projections of yellow flowers like the tentacles of a fading firework. There are bugs that are something like cicadas as their hum never ceases, but the tone is something more incredible. Some sound like a constantly ringing brass bell, others like an alarm sounding when there has been a security breach
of classified information in a vault somewhere. Both sounds are unfamiliar but created something of music for our hike, a language all there own.
In the Night Bazaar a few days later, I encountered similar beauty in sounds. I soaked in the sounds of the women with silver jewelry who walk through the crowded aisles of stands, the bracelets clacking against the sound of their voices - come have a look; try it - loong-kha. Their quiet movements melded into the din of the market - feet clopping, sii-loos driving by with their tailpipes loose, the regular patterns of voices bargaining, the occassional shop selling western music, and the sound of food sizzling on street vendors' griddles. Yet the music of their movements still echo in my ears. As I write these words in the quiet solitude of my Thai home, all of the sounds resonate as a symphony of human connection.
