I'm starting this post from bed five of 60 Blue House in Chiang Mai, Thailand. A dorm I share with Joanna, a classmate from TMC, an Asian with whom I've had nary an exchange, and an Asian with whom I've had several exchanges. Of the heated nature.
Hostel warfare. It's a thing.
This particular Asian appears to have a phobia of fans. Even though the room is boiling in Thailand's hot and humid March, she insists on switching off the only method of somewhat alleviating the oppressive heat.
WHY?
"Hey, I'm sorry, but I need the fan on," I told her as she sat outside our stuffy, unbearable room on Tuesday night. "My throat has been bothering me for months, and it can sometimes be hard to breathe. When the fan isn't on, I feel like I'm suffocating. I don't need to have it on high, but it does need to be on."
"All night?" the Asian, who looks much older than me and spends most of the night playing Pokemon on her phone, looked stricken.
"Yes. ALL NIGHT. I need the fan on all night," I found myself advocating fiercely for that fan.
"But... but it makes the air hot. Can't you tell? It blows hot air."
"No... Umm... that's not what the fan does. The fan cools us down..."
The Asian looked at me incredulously. As if she'd never heard of such a thing as fans used for cooling.
That night, I turned the fan on low. I glanced over at the misguided Asian in bed six, and she huffed and pulled a pillow over her face.
She'd rather have a PILLOW on her face than a fan? Jesus.
I woke up at four thirty. Sweating an suffocating in the roasting room.
Because the fan isn't on.
Gosh.
WHO DOES THAT?
Who, when told something makes a person feel like they're suffocating, will disregard everything the person has said and just carry on as if the exchange had never taken place?
I resolutely rose from my bed and walked towards the fan, passing the Asian in bed six on my way.
"It doesn't need to be on high, but it does need to be on," I repeated myself. Then switched the fan to medium.
Five minutes later, the fan-loathing Asian flung off her blanket and stomped towards the fan, turned it down to low. Then stomped back to her bed, heaved herself onto her mattress and crankily pulled her pillow back over her face.
Jesus Christ.
How old is she?
We haven't spoken to each other since. I keep the fan on medium whenever I'm at home during the day and turn it on low at night. Then switch it off when I leave for massage school and see that she's still sleeping in our room.
So we seem to have arrived at a simmering sort of understanding.
Tonight, it's just me and the Asian in bed six, because Joanna is out celebrating with the rest of our classmates. Because we graduated with our 90-Hour Comprehensive Thai Massage certificate today.
I'm at 60 Blue House with the sulking, Pokemon watching, middle-aged Asian and not out celebrating with my buddies because a) several large doctor's bills related to my throat and my massage school tuition have trampled all over my meager vagabond budget, and b) I'm in dire need of introvert time.
So I decided to stay "home" and write a blog post and file my taxes. Like the party animal I am.
The last week of TMC was rife with laughter, sore thumbs and invitations to various countries.
"Come see me if you're ever in the Netherlands," the Dutchman swallowed me up in his hug.
I love courses like this. Courses which bring people together from all over the world to share an intimate, intense, few weeks. Weeks which create friendships that will hopefully continue long after we've all departed on our separate adventures.
I mean... I know I'm gonna see my Russian again. Not sure where. But it will happen.
Maybe I'll find her in Greece.
Where she'll be nestled in the highest branches of a soaring tree.
With ketchup on her face.
 |
| Evidence that people do actually buy this stuff. Not just photograph it. |
During week one, I remember being a tad discouraged by the basic English of our teachers. By week two, I accepted the basic English. By week three, I embraced it. Along with the sense of humor that caught me off guard every time.
"Pregnant, or not?" teacher Nina asked one of the students on whom she was demonstrating a technique wherein pregnancy was a contraindication.
"No, not pregnant," the student replied.
"No pregnant?!? Why not?!" Nina scolded the young woman.
In each classroom stands a two foot skeleton whom the teachers fondly refer to as "Tim". Often, when demonstrating techniques on students, the teachers will plop Tim on top of them to show how the bones line up.
"Tim! Oh no!" Ao cried when Tim's arm fell off during a demonstration. "Sorry, Tim. I sit on you."
The Dutchman and the Canadian were paired off together on Thursday, with the Dutchman giving and the Canadian receiving.
"Oh, sexy body!" Nina commented as the Canadian's shirt moved (as shirts are bound to do) during the massage, exposing a wee bit of his midriff.
This is what the teachers always say when we've... errr.... exposed ourselves. My first day in class, the top button of my shirt came undone. Ao rushed over to me, tsking, "Na ha, sexy body..." and proceeded to button me up.
The Canadian was a challenging "client" for the Dutchman to massage. Due to his kidney stones and recent tattoo. As the two bantered back and forth about how to continue the massage, Nina approached them with her no-nonsense face.
"Be careful of his kidneys, na ha. Be careful of his tattoo. Be careful of his heart," her eyes twinkled in her deadpan face.
The Dutchman (who is rather tall, at six foot five. In my head, I refer to him as my Flying Dutchman), has a difficult time coercing his body into different positions for certain techniques.
"Oh, Kama Sutra!" Nina exclaimed at one of the Dutchman's such attempts.
"Now I will massage your spine," the Dutchman informed his injured client.
"Now I will mashage your shpine," Nina poked fun at his thick accent.
Did a Thai woman with basic English just make fun of a Dutchman's accent?
Bahahaha.
When I was paired off with Joanna, teacher Aam was rightfully concerned. I have a habit of devolving into giggles, and Joanna has the habit of not-TMC polite gangsta gestures.
Aam positioned Tim near our mat and tilted his head down at an especially eerie angle.
"Tim is watching you," Aam said.
I tried not to laugh. Tim is a very intimidating sort of character to have leering over you as you press "dow the li of the spi."
But then twinkle-twinkle little star played over the stereo, and I lost my bananas for the seventeenth time that morning.
At TMC, we appear to have three choices of music. We have a) Christmas carols, b) lullabies, and c) pan pipes playing pop songs.
But in the Banana Room (rooms are named after fruits, flowers and herbs), there is only one song. And it plays on repeat for hours. It is the song that will underscore my dreams for years to come.
"Can we please change the music?" the woman from Scotland implored every now and again. The teachers would concede and switch to rock-a-by-baby. But after just a few minuets or relief, the old humdrum song would somehow hijack the lullaby track and start to play again.
Our last day at TMC, we learned how to make herbal massage balls.
"Can we take pictures with the ingredients?" we asked. Pictures are forbidden unless we have explicit permission from the teachers. Because they don't want Joanna to happen.
But Joanna will always happen.
"Okay, picture," they consented. "But be TMC polite."
So Joanna promptly grabbed a massive knife in one hand and the Flying Dutchman's head in the other.
 |
| Joanna's version of TMC polite |
Ingredients of herbal ball are plai, lemongrass, kaffir lime, tamarind leaves, turmeric, rock salt and camphor. First, we had to chop all the rhizomes and grasses into tiny pieces. Then we had to use a mortar and pestle to grind them into pulp.
Nina stood over Ibuki, the Japanese student as she pulpified her turmeric.
"You too slow. Do this in Thailand, will not get husband."
The Flying Dutchman took over for Ibuki.
"Show me how good husband you are!" Nina exhorted the new pulpifier.
Next, we plopped the mixture of herbs onto squares of white cotton and molded them into a balls.
"Make round! Into ball. Not square. Round. Like plastic boobs!" Nina explained.
At our graduation ceremony, Ao haltingly read a short speech to our class, thanking us for spending three weeks at TMC.
"To learn massage, it take patience... con... con.... const... constipation, compassion," Ao smiled at us from her paper.
My face immediately turned bright red as I tried to hold in a barrage of guffaws.
CONSTIPATION? Did that really just happen?
It did. It did indeed just happen.
What a perfect way to end my three weeks at TMC.
No comments:
Post a Comment