What They Don't Tell You They Show You

by Kaileia Kostroun (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Thailand

The village awoke at 3am. The roosters crowed in the night. Those who were coming on the six hour bus ride gathered hand-stitched pillows, a communal jug of water, and bamboo mats to line the floor of the open vehicle so more people could sit. Mid-December air was cold. Women wore scarves around their faces and tied traditional long skirts, called patoongs around their waists. There must have been about twenty of us, total. My mother, sisters, and I were the only ones who packed overnight bags, not knowing how long we would stay in Ubon once we arrived. We didn’t speak the language. We couldn’t read the signs. We didn’t know exactly where we were, but we trusted the faces that surrounded us on all sides. I woke to a mass of laughter. Crammed in the corner, my heavy head hung and swayed, while dreams rattled inside. My inability to stay awake in the dark brought light to a crowd of crowded passengers. As my head nodded and I nodded off, I heard Thai whispers and my mother translating their words for them. They warned me to shut the window behind my head, worried I might lean back and fall out. Every time a near-fall forward startled my eyes open for a brief moment, every pair of their eyes were on me, crinkled by genuine smiles oozing with laughter. I slept the morning away. When we arrived at Na Wet’s village, wooden scraps on stilts were called homes. The ground surrounding each home was littered with plastic bags, wrappers, and empty beer bottles. A thin sheet of metal covered the tops of each wooden frame. Their cows were smaller than the ones in Mom's village, but the excretions were just as big and dried into the dirt roads. The day dragged on. Monks sang prayers for hours. Incense burned on the altar next to a framed picture of a relative I knew nothing about and had had never met. The hand-sewn pillows were stacked there too. In Thailand, the one year anniversary of a loved one’s death is an all-day into nighttime event. My sisters and I were sure we could make it through, until I had to go poop. My mother asked someone where to find a bathroom for me. A drunk Ba Mem led me through a congested kitchen into a small bedroom, to a smaller closed-off corner where a barrel of water stood next to a hole in the ground. I stared at her. She furrowed her faint brows, waved her hands at me to go ahead, and pointed at the barrel of water. When I refused, we walked back outside and found my mother seated at a table, so I could ask her to ask Ba Mem where we could find toilet paper. Meanwhile, I desperately tried to hold inside what remained of the spicy curry. I was the luk-falang (child of a foreigner) who could not use the bathroom without toilet paper. Ba Mem walked me back towards the hole. All eyes were on me as we strolled through the kitchen, yet again. This time, butt cheeks clenched and toilet paper in my hands. In the bedroom, a man was sleeping on a twin sized cot. He wasn’t planning on moving. I went into the corner stall, squatted above the hole, and felt a wave of relief wash out of me. When I finished, I wiped, tossed the toilet paper in the hole, and reached into the barrel of water. I poured in three cups until the unspeakable sight was gone. That night, I watched as they all slept. Their gentle faces, peaceful and grateful with no effort, stole my heart. It was my turn to laugh. Their heavy eyelids, and still, heavier heads swayed back and forth much in the same way mine did earlier that morning. But the shadows hid them and all their fears. Whereas my head had banged against the window behind me before lurching forward into a near-fall that their laughter always saved me from, their heads only ever kindly grazed the windows behind them. This morning, I was their entertainment and tonight, they were my salvation.