Posts Tagged ‘VCDF’

Breaking Point

Monday, July 26th, 2010

After visiting VCDF, the emotions of what happens to children in Thailand came rushing to my throat and stayed there.  In classic Heather fashion, I let the anguish sit there, stewing in my gut until I was practically incapacitated with a headache and nausea.  On Sunday, Michael had had a frustrating morning working at Starbucks.  This did not lead to good communication patterns, and we spent the afternoon lying on our respective twin beds, staring at the ceiling and begging the oscillating fan to come back sooner.

That night, the boys (Nate, Kevin, and Mike) went to a movie (!) while the girls (Christina, Alex, Rachel, and myself), checked out the famous Sunday night market.  We decided to end Girls’ Night with a glass of red wine, a rare luxury in northern Thailand.  We arrived at the Italian restaurant near Chiang Mai’s famous Tae Phae Gate and I cringed.

“I don’t want to sit next to a bunch of sex tourists,” I mumbled, and two grim suspects were sitting right at the window.  When our attempts to squeeze together at a table outside failed, my friends headed inside.  I felt like I needed a few more breaths of fresh air, so I went two doors down to a big, open-air used bookshop.  My goal was to buy Michael a “Star Wars” book as a joke and apology for being short with him that afternoon.  When I searched the aisles and found “Children of the Jedi,” I was tempted, but decided $6 on a joke was too much.  Besides, sadly, I knew he already had that one.  (See why I needed a girls’ night?)

Inside the restaurant, I ordered a glass of house wine for $3 and we chatted about the shopping, the people, the amazing lunch we had that day.  We talked about Alex missing her husband and Christina’s major and… Somewhere in all of that, I was pulled to the conversation of those two men sitting in front of me at the window.  Their talk of stocks had turned to a few sentences exchanged:  “Christ, his arms!  And those legs!”  I turned away and back to my wine.  They could be talking about anything, anyone.

They continued.  Showers.  Massages.  I blinked my eyes up at the ceiling.  I fiddled with my wallet.  I threw out a completely unengaged question to the conversation at my table and nodded politely at the somewhat confused answer returned.  My ears went back to the men.

I can’t really write what they said.  But they marveled at how young, how small the children are… they shared all this with not even a hushed voice and it all went straight to my ears and penetrated my heart.  Those are Alex’s boys they are talking about and the boy at the drop-in center who taught me the Thai word for fish and the girls who learn English in the classroom below my kitchen.  Those are our kids they are talking about.  I looked around and no one was hearing them.

Much to my pride’s embarrassment, the emotions of the last few days welled over and I began sobbing in the restaurant.  I threw money on the table and apologized to my friends and told them I had to leave, that I couldn’t listen anymore, etc.  I’m not sure what I said.  And what happens next is a blur, but rumor has it I walked over to the men’s table, spit in my wine glass, told them the drink was on me, and to enjoy their time in Thailand.

I was only a few blocks from our hotel, and I wept the whole way home.  A loud, snotty mess.  Past the tuk-tuk’s and tourists, past bars that were filling up and hotels that would soon do the same, past the perfectly lovely street vendors hawking their native crafts.  I keyed into my room and wept for the children the men were talking about, for the girls SOLD didn’t reach before we got here, for Alex’s boys that see those men every night (maybe that night), and for this country–God, this country–where there seems to be no shame in paying someone so young for sex and then discussing details over dinner.

Sweet Rachel joined me in my room a few minutes later.  I apologized for making a scene and creating an obviously awkward situation for them to remain in while I booked it home.  Rachel listened to me cry.  I couldn’t shake the weight of this country and the patches of such darkness it held.  My soul felt heavy.  I craved the fresh air of our bedroom in Chiang Rai and the laughter of the kids downstairs.  That is what this country is to me, and I was desperate to return.

Rachel left and met the boys downstairs.  When Mike knocked, I opened the door with bloodshot eyes and a puffy face covered in snot.  He barely suppressed a smile, bless him.  “I hear you got into a little trouble tonight.”  And he gave me that look that he gives me right before giving me a big hug, and we cried together.

At one of the last events we did in the States, one woman in particular was fairly adamant in her questions regarding sex tourists at the end of our presentation.  She was angry at those men, really angry.  She asked how we could handle it. I wanted to tell her about God’s love for everyone, but it didn’t feel appropriate, so I told her that we personally believed those men were worth something, and that love is always a better answer than hate.

I told her later, in private, that we believed in a God that is full of love and foolish enough to love sinners, like myself and those men who pay to have sex with children.  None of us deserve anything, and we’re all offered the same love from God.  I am no better, no more worthy of God’s perfect love, than a sex tourist.  That’s how complete and good and perfect God’s love is.  She nodded, said that she understood, and that her thoughts and prayers were with us.

I thought of her on the way home.  What would she think of me now, spitting in a sex tourist’s wine glass?  In my head, I go back to the scene and tell those men nothing will satisfy them but a relationship with God.  That no matter what they or I have done, God loves them and is pursuing them.  I say and do despicable things that are not loving or kind or compassionate.  I’m so thankful God never spits in my wine glass.  He pours me an overflowing cup of grace, no matter what.

But I didn’t.  And I think about that fact a lot.

Posted by: collettostories Category: Thailand, travel Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Chiang Mai

Sunday, July 18th, 2010

We’re in Chiang Mai for a few days, Thailand’s second largest city, which is about three hours southwest from our home in Chiang Rai.  The streets are wide and the ancient city walls and moat frame the old city’s bustle, which is known for arts and crafts.

Driving into town after three hours in the back of an old pick-up truck–an adventure  itself–I realized I had forgotten about the worst of Thailand.  But here we are:  the sex tourists and the bars with open fronts and women in short dresses and the lady boys on street corners. I rolled my eyes at the foreigners, but we all chowed down at a local burger and fries joint, and I felt like I’d sold out to the city’s Western appeal, no matter how innocent my strawberry milkshake tasted.

The rainy season is drawing to an end here in northern Thailand, and an hour of steady rain comes through at least every other day.  Yesterday, we were stuck in traffic in the back of a truck and got soaked through the bone during a sudden downpour.  Our teeth chattered as we laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, the water in the bottom of the truck sloshing back and forth as we inched through stand-still traffic.  Some kids in a song-tao (group taxi) teased us, so Michael Manes grabbed one of our half-full water bottles and tossed the water at this with surprisingly good aim.  Saving face, indeed.

Chiang Mai is the location of VCDF, one of our partner organizations who has a drop-in center for kids who live on the streets.  Some have families, thought most of them are drug addicts that send their kids out to work.  Others are on their own entirely.  VCDF reaches them through art therapy, classes on being a kid, and educating the kids–kids–on contraceptives, STI’s, etc.

When we arrived to visit yesterday, the kids had just finished a group art therapy session, so paper and crayons were everywhere.  I laid on the linoleum floor with a young boy, orange pastel crayons in our hands.  He drew a penis.  I drew a fish.

“Nee ari?”  I asked, pointing to the best Nemo I could muster.  What’s this?

“Blah,” he said.  Fish.

I pointed to his drawing and said “Ghang mak.”  Good job. We drew a crocodile next, and he was cheered when I drew large, vicious teeth in its gaping mouth.

The Girl in Orange from this past January was still there.  She wore the same dress.  I was delighted to see her, thinking, She’s still here! Then the reality of her, still sitting on the floor in that same dress six months later hit me.  Oh God.  Why is she still here?

Michael Manes wrote a beautiful post about the afternoon, his first at the drop-in center.  I, for one, have chosen to focus my emotions on the kittens outside of our hotel.   They are so skinny and skittish, but I won them over and now they come when I call them.  One in particular is a tie-dye dark grey and orange and white.  Their ears are full of mites and two of them have broken tails, probably from the local kids picking on them.  They are so, so skinny.  We moved to a new hotel today that was a bit cheaper, so I had to say good-bye.  I keep thinking about them and wonder if they are okay.

Last night was a good-bye dinner for Rachel Sparks-Graeser, SOLD’s founder, who is moving home after a year here in Thailand with her husband, who returned to the States a month ago.  The tears were flowing as we raised our glasses and thanked Rachel for changing our lives.  We may never forgive her.

Posted by: collettostories Category: Thailand Tags: , , ,

Why We’re Going

Thursday, April 15th, 2010

In the past, I’ve always taken my pain and turned it over in my hands a few times to give myself and everyone else the impression of understanding and acceptance.  Then I wrap that pain into a little package with hurried strips of Scotch tape and hide it away in that spot where the forgotten Christmas presents wait for years on end, wrapped and no longer relevant.  But they’ve cost you money just the same.

During our two weeks in Thailand, I did a pretty good job of taking in all the tough information without letting it get to me.  The embarrassed girls on the poles, the boredom of the men hawking sexual menus to my husband, the dead look of the young girls sitting in bars.  I read it all like a textbook chapter detailing a historical tragedy that was what it was.

At the end of the trip, in Chiang Mai, we played with street kids who stay in a a drop-center during the day.  The children–the children–learn about HIV/AIDS, using protection during sex, and what it means to be a child.  Teen boys (“lady boys”) sleep on the floor and the younger kids jump over them without a second thought.  Kids beat each other mercilessly in play.  It was like a wild daycare center without parents. The kids leave when the sun sets and they make their living on the streets before coming back the next day.

The kids dragged us to the floor to play a bean game with them.  They scattered tiny seed-like beans on the linoleum floor and began pointing, drawing imaginary lines, and flicking the beans into each other.  All of us, well educated, were at a loss.  But the kids did their best to teach us.

One little girl wore a dirt-stained face and a ripped orange dress with rust-colored flowers printed on it.  She was maybe six.  The Girl in Orange spoke to me very deliberately in her Thai dialect, keeping her wide eyes on me while pointing to the piles of beans at our knees like a patient teacher.  She took my hands in hers and patiently led my fingers along the array of beans until I learned the pattern of directing one bean’s path to the next so I could win a small handful. When a small boy came over and tried to take some of her beans, she reacted like an attacked animal, fearless and merciless in her defense, and the boy scampered away, defeated.

At my first successful move, she made a sweet cry of joy–an equivalent of “yay!”–and applauded her hands in front of her smiling face.  I knocked one bean into the next, collecting as I went.  Each time, she encouraged me with her words and smiles and claps.  I’d never felt more proud of such a small success.  In a few rounds, I had collected about four beans while she had several dozen.

“Awwww…” I said, feigning disappointment that the game was over and I’d done so poorly.  She reached out and up to my shoulder, patted it with a smile, and then reached down to her beans and drew a line down the middle.  I thought we were beginning the game again but, instead, she pushed one half of the beans at me.

To me, the room became quiet and all I heard were her wide eyes before me, blinking and eager.  I stared at her, and The Girl in Orange gestured with her hands back at the beans and their new place next to my knees.  She smiled at me.  She ripped into my heart and tore open whatever package had been tucked away.  She ripped it open ferociously and left me staggering.  She gave me half her beans.

I told her “thank you” in Thai, held up a finger to ask her to wait, and clawed my way through the crowded group of friends and children on the floor, my eyes on nothing but the fresh air on the street.  I stepped out onto the sidewalk, taking care of passing motorbikes and their long, moving shadows.  I turned the corner as quickly as I could.  I leaned my head back–hard–into the concrete wall.

The sun was setting behind me as I swallowed the bile and pride coming up in my throat, and I sobbed.

Posted by: collettostories Category: travel Tags: , , , , ,