In Chiang Mai, Thailand, there is a moat, seven centuries old, that surrounds the entire city, separating old Chiang Mai from new Chiang Mai. Crumbling remains of a wall built to keep out marauding hordes encircle the moat, in some places full height still, in others, just a flimsy stack of eroding bricks. The water in the moat ranges from a deep blue to a muddy brown. Fish jump out at regular intervals, although, from what I can see, more fish do seem to jump from the blue water than the brown. Despite that, each day, lingering fishermen tend their spindly hopeful rods in both the blue parts and the brown parts. They don’t seem to care. A fish is a fish, I guess. So they hope and they wait and they sleep. Around the moat, all around the city, really, scooters buzz like bees of every shape and size and color. Dozens of them swarm the front of traffic at every red light in town. Entire families seem to stack themselves on a single beleaguered bike, one on top of another — one, two, three, four — like circus performers. They like to wave to you as you walk by. I wave back, happy at the crazy sight of these dark-haired columns, these cheery balancing acts.
The Thai people think I am Spanish, somehow, with my blond hair and blue eyes. I am alien to them. A fascination. Are you Spanish, they keep asking in broken English. No, no, I say, American. They nod, Ohhhh. I try hard to speak the meager Thai I taught myself. When someone in our group needs a songtao, a taxi, I’m the only one who can barter with the driver. They were told to learn some basic Thai for the mission trip, but, eh, they’re young. College kids. What are you gonna do? So they get me to haggle with the driver. Tracey, get me a sweet deal, okay? this one says. Sure, kid, I laugh in mock confidence. I have no idea if I can get him a sweet deal.
I approach the window of the songtao.
“Tao rai ka?” How much?
“Sahm sip baht” 30 baht. Whoa, tourist rate. (I did my homework.)
Behind me, my friend shakes his head; shows me he only has 20.
“Yee sip baht?” 20 baht?
I smile at him hopefully. He looks at my hair. Nods. The hair I can’t help, but the smile is on purpose.
“Kup khun ka,” I say. Thank you.
My friend gets in the songtao, murmurs, “Thanks, Tracey.”
“Sure.” I laugh and walk away. I am the den mother.
At the orphanage where we work, the smallest kids cluster and squat around metal bowls of lam yai, a local fruit. They motion me over, invite me to squat with them as they peel the thin brown crust from each tiny piece of fruit. The peeled fruit looks like a cross between an onion and a grape. Once several are peeled, they dump the pieces into my hand first, faces shining expectantly. I’m not a picky eater and I’m willing to try most anything, so I do. They are sweet and sour. Juicier than I expected. As I bite into the piece, the entire group of children seems to break into one huge white smile. They are so beautiful and small and innocent, they make my heart hurt. We eat lam yai and play hand games. After a long while, I get up to leave — an obligation to meet elsewhere. No. No. They pull me back, fighting over who gets my lap. So we sit around the metal bowls, a child constantly in my arms, and eat more lam yai in the steamy dying sunlight.
