Last day in Bangkok

I woke up early on Saturday morning—and I was nervous. It was the day for my big seminar, a day when about 40 people (I was told) would come and hear about “transformative learning and contemplative practice” from me. After a hot shower and an “American breakfast” (eggs, fruit and toast), I was off to the seminar. We walked through the university building surrounded by posters, in Thai, advertising my talk. I could tell it was about me because the only English characters were “Assistant Professor Doctor” and my name (seems like an awful lot of titles). The seminar room filled—and then overfilled—with dark-haired people speaking a lyrical and utterly foreign language. I felt completely out of place and wondered how I would make it through the next three hours.

The seminar began with mediation and then suddenly me. I bumped my way though the opening, not having any of my regular beginning-of-a-seminar teaching tools to rely on: the translation was not simultaneous, so I would speak for a minute or two to about half the group who understood me, and then I’d wait for a minute or three (Thai takes a long time!) for the rest of the group to hear. It was like being on an international phone call where the voices don’t quite line up with each other, and I was awkward during the times when I wasn’t speaking. This is a hard way to get into the flow of the room. But eventually I did get into a flow, and there were enough English speakers in the room to laugh at my jokes and descriptions which loosened me up some (and then the funny echo of laughter after the translation would come). And as time went by, even the ones I was pretty sure didn’t understand a word of my language would look at me so attentively and hopefully, waiting for the next thing they could understand, that the seminar ended up feeling as warm as any I’ve done in a long time. Then finally, in a rush of good questions and a pause for ending meditation, it was over.

After lunch (here even the food they serve in university seminars is delicious—fresh and flavorful), I met with the curriculum committee of the new masters degree in Transformative education and contemplative studies. Sitting on mats on the floor, with green tea and sweets (and bugle corn snacks which I remember from my youth), we talked about the goals for the center, about my work at IET, about what had brought these folks to this work. The committee is a volunteer group of contemplative practitioners who work in science, engineering, the arts, and peace education. They were playful and serious and smart and wonderful. Three of us broke off to get massages (yum!) but we most of us met up for an impromptu roof-top party to celebrate the yearly river festival Loy Krathong.

Everyone brought food and drink, and we took it to the most beautiful house I’ve seen here, brand new and taking full advantage of its riverside location. We ate on a rooftop terrace, the music from the wat across the river providing a fitting soundtrack. There was another American there (the first I’ve seen since I’ve been in Thailand) and several of the folks from the group had lived in or visited the US. The chatter was a mix of Thai and English, peppered with booms from the fireworks always going off somewhere, and flavored with ready laughter. We lit our krathongs down by the river, and laughed as the wind blew out the flames or the current sent them to be netted in the water hyacinths that cover the river here. I couldn’t believe how at home I felt at this party with these people, nearly all of whom had been strangers before. They seemed genuinely sad to be saying goodbye (I know I was), and I think I will see at least some of them again. I hope so.

This morning, my last here, Aeh and Gig picked me up and took me to a floating market. We walked through amazing stands of produce to find ourselves in what seemed to me to be a movie set meant to display the glories of rural Thailand. How else could you explain all of the colors and smells and sounds—and the fact that nearly all of the stalls, food sizzling or smoking or steaming—were floating, these ancient boats tied to our pier filled with sweets and savories like I’ve never seen before. I watched a woman in a boat make the best pad Thai I ever tasted and I bought it for less than a dollar and ate it in front of a floating stall with smoking fish and grilling chicken. Gig and Aeh and I took a boat trip down the river to a nearby wat. We threw bread into the water for the masses of fish so thick they made the river churn and boil. At the wat, I took a fistful of orchids and put them on an altar, lit incense, and prayed a deep prayer of thanksgiving to any god who was listening. I have eaten and prayed and laughed and talked and meditated my way through these eight days, and I am sated and content and so happy that I think maybe tropical flowers will sprout from my fingers.

It turns out that the best thing about this trip to Thailand for me isn’t the magnificent food, the lovely scenery, the ever-present foreignness of the place. The best thing for me has been the people. The people who have brushed against my life—sometimes in tiny vignettes, sometimes for more extended conversations—have been so warm and friendly, so smart and interesting. I found myself overcome with admiration for so many people doing such wonderful things in the world. I have been moved by their kindness, their generosity, their warm welcome. I know that much of this is because Aeh and Gig are themselves so admirable that hanging out in their circles put me in a good crowd. But the quality of people here is remarkable, and I can’t help but believe the strong Buddhist faith here is at least partly responsible for the high level of reflection, of orientation towards making the world a better place.