Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life. ((Kerouac))

Like watching the last bit of sand slip through the curved hourglass, I can see and feel my time here dwindling away, and I, like the last particle of sand, am clinging desperately to the glass wall of time. Walks after dinner feel like they should have happened months ago and swimming laps in the cool blue waters at Benjasiri Park, I ask myself, “Why didn’t I do this every day?” I think about places I still want to see and back streets I have yet to explore and my time with the kids…

While I am proud to say that my work at Mercy has not only been valuable, it has been quantifiable, in terms of the grants that I have worked on, my most treasured experience has been the relationships I have built with my RIST students. ((RIST is the name of the International School my Mercy kids attend.)) Their trust, their hugs, their smiles, their good days and bad have all been shared. Their ability to overcome, their fierce determination to succeed, their good will toward others and their unconditional love for each other breaks me down and builds me up just a little bit stronger every day.

One of my girls, a mother at 19 and still in high school is consistently a renewed sense of pride (thanks dad, I stole that one from you!). Last night I joked with her, “How come you are thinner than me and you’ve already had a baby!?” She laughed and patted my belly, a sign of comfort and affection in Thailand, and replied, “P’Alex, if you stay here you will be skinny forever and when you have a baby, we have herbal pills that make you skinny, plus you will have to go to the sauna for one hour every day.” A tempting offer. I made her promise to send me the pills when I am pregnant. “No problem, they’re only 40B a pack!”

This morning, stepping out into my narrow, littered soi I was greeted by my always smiling next door neighbor. Without fail, he shouts “Good morning!” hearing the clanking of metal as I slide our front gate closed. I usually find him in shorts, with no top, a sinewy man in his early 50s with a lean face and a smile that stretches from ear to ear, either cleaning his motor bike, or shaving, using his motorbike’s 2’’x 1’’ rearview mirror for accuracy. This particular morning I found him sitting at the modest table he has just beyond his sliding metal gate of a front door. He gestured for me to come join him. I know this man to be a good man and the feeling has been confirmed with Pung’s story detailing his kindness of taking her in, during a monsoon, when she was locked out of our house. If I hadn’t been en route to editing and academic writing I would have taken him up on his offer. To be invited into someone’s home as a foreigner is an honor, especially in this community.

Our conversation went a little like this:

“Maa” he gestured with the sweeping motion of his hand, come come.

He signaled to the bottle of Blend 285, a cheap Thai scotch/whiskey still in the box, with a glass ripe with condensation and filled with a pale yellow, watered down Blend.

“Ahhh, mai-ka, kap khun ka,” I replied, with the look of Oh thank you, but no thank you, a gracious smile swept across my sleepy face. It was just before 11AM.

“Chai, nit noi, nit noi – kap,” in his most persuasive, yet gentle tone, he negotiated, “Just a little bit, a little.”

Using the limited Thai I have on reserve, I busted out my favorite line, “Mai ka, mai gin lao.” I learned this phrase drinking whiskey by accident, and learned it quickly. With the subtleties of the tonal language, saying “gin lao” can either mean, “I have already eaten” or “I have been drinking whiskey,” a lesson taken from Mercy’s security guards after they offered me dinner one night and then roared in laugher at what I thought was a perfectly valid response.

He looked confused, to why I would turn down a perfectly good, cold glass of Blend an hour before high noon. I struggled with words.

“Chan bia key-en, key-en SCHOOL?” In an attempt to explain I had to go write, to write for school, he smiled and laughed in defeat. I searched for the words “Next time” but they weren’t there and my heart saddened at the thought that there many not be a next time.

I thought about the book I am attempting to read, while continuing my work for Mercy, my own school-work and my blog; Shantaram. It’s an impressive tale and a quick paced read and I have found, a favorite among traveling young men. However, this book could not have been suggested at a more appropriate time, as the author recounts his time, as a foreigner from Australia, living in the slums of Bombay. At times I feel his stories are my own and the realities of his life are running parallel to mine. He speaks of the perception of danger to those outside of the slums and of the safety he feels within them. I relate. People know me now, as one of the few foreign faces to be seen in the neighborhood, always surrounded by Thais. I feel a sense of belonging. Looking back to my first day, watching my mother’s face trail off in the taxi out of Jet-sip-lai, I can only laugh: I had no idea what was about to happen and I thought, “What have I gotten myself into?” Six months later I choke up at the thought of leaving. When I left Prague I felt satisfied, like I was ready to move on, but here, I just feel like I’m clinging on to every last minute. 11 full days left on the calendar. I can’t wait to see the faces I left behind, but I can’t bear the thought of leaving the people I love here.

What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
((Kerouac, On the Road))

Pictures to come soon.

ABA