For the past month, we’ve been in SE Asia. Here are some interesting things I’ve noticed or that have popped into my brain:
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While this toilet paper doesn't share the same textures/qualities as Laos toilet paper, it IS the same color pink!
Toilet Paper Streamers — strangely, in Lao only, the toilet paper is almost exactly like those paper streamers bought cheaply to decorate parties. While double the width and slightly less waxy, the texture, accordion crinkles, the way it stretches without breaking are all the same. Oh, and sometimes it’s grandma-pink.
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I worry (lightheartedly) that switching with regularity back and forth between left-hand and right-hand traffic countries may permanently damage my psyche. US: Right. New Zealand: Left. US: Right. New Zealand: Left. Philippines: Right. Thailand: Left. Laos: Right. Thailand: Left. Cambodia: Right. Thailand: Left. Indonesia is coming soon. This creepy, consistent pattern says it must be a right hand world there.
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A pity many people are basing their opinions of Americans and other westerners at least partyly on stuff like this.
Laos has adapted the world’s pop music in the same funny way that the Philippines has. All the music is sped up to double time. I laughed in puzzlement as I heard Ke$ha singing “Tik Tok” at twice the speed.
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Who knew you could really miss blue jeans? I have genuine, deeply emotional nostalgia when I envision the way it feels to pull on a nice, cool, pair of denims. The only benefit, were I to have them here, would be the creation of visceral memories upon which I could draw when facing physical discomfort in the future. As in, “Oh, this isn’t so bad. Remember those months you ran around South East Asia sweltering in blue jeans?!” Still, I now know in my very being what it is like for immigrants – to be glad for what you have while still desperately missing and longing for old comforts and familiarities that just don’t fit in your new life.
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This is how I used to look and feel...
If I did miraculously wake to find a pair of my old jeans in hand, I fear they wouldn’t recognize me. My body has never gone this long without quantifiable daily physical challenges. Nor has it gone this long in an environment where the tropical heat and the relative hassle of eating means I sometimes go hours between meals. Me. The woman who formerly could go nowhere without packing snacks. Whose stomach would possess her entire body if it wasn’t fed at least eight times a day at regular intervals. I used to feel like a strong wooden statue covered in pliable clay — firm at the core, soft on top. Now in the mirror I see a skeleton wrapped in bread dough. I’ve turned completely soft. It’s weird.
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I had the delightful pleasure of overhearing a conversation in a restaurant in Luang Prabang. Two affluent Americans in their late middle age striking up a conversation with the French couple seated beside them. Is it just English speakers who, upon realizing their intended audience doesn’t share their first (only) language, behave so oddly? I don’t understand the desire to speak at a speed normally reserved for toddlers. To simplify sentences to the point of being grammatically incorrect. To dumb down word choice to a see-spot-run level. Do French people do this? Spanish speakers? Germans? Japanese?
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I don't generally touch the walls, but this is our private bathroom at our hotel. I'm demonstrating a tactic that you can use if you think you'll be there for awhile...
I’ve officially settled into the groove of the toilet world here. This happened to me last time I was in SE Asia, too. Given a choice, I’ll now take a squat toilet any day. Especially in public. Many places have both, and I’ll walk the length of stalls until I find the squatters. It feels so much cleaner to me. So much more comfortable. It’s one of the things I’ll miss the most during my reverse culture shock.
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It’s a small world after all. From the back of my tuk tuk on my way to catch the night bus out of Luang Prabang, I saw a woman in a dress. My neurons and synapses fired wildly and I said, “Hey! That’s Paige! And Andrew! Oh my god.” Two former fellow servants at one of Wanaka, New Zealand’s least likeable bars. We didn’t become friends, but we should have, considering 1) how condescending other employees were about these two behind their backs and 2) my propensity for sticking up for the bullied. But, I didn’t tell the driver to stop. What was there to say anyway?
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It's telling that the only props, if any, in google image results for "tired" and "exhausted" are computers. #majorculturalproblem.
11 hours. That’s my current magic number, leaving me wondering if most my peers are suffering from extreme sleep deprivation. For a year now, an average of two or three times a week I get to sleep as much as I want. These are days I’m not committed to anything that requires getting up or going to bed on a schedule. When I crawl in for the night and don’t set an alarm, exactly 11 hours go by before my eyelids flutter open again. Like clockwork. ♣
Coming soon: tales of our travels with Beth!
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