In Backbench 18 (Final Issue) | Health
Postcard from North East Thailand – May 2005
By Camy Wong
One sweltering afternoon in May this year, my travelling buddy and I rifled our way through the infamous Bangkok traffic to finally arrive at Mochit bus terminal, about 20 minutes north of the city centre.
‘Tu want to go tooh Yasothorn?’ the lady behind the counter asks in her thickly Thai accent, slightly perplexed.
‘Yes, Yasothorn’, I repeat, pointing to the tiny dot on the map of Thailand in my trusty Lonely Planet.
‘Yasothorn?’ she countered again, just in case I was one of those poor confused tourists that got destination names mixed up and ended boarding a bus to the other side of the county.
‘Yes, I would like two tickets please’.
In the dizzyingly muggy midday tropical heat it finally struck me that after months of red tape wrangling I was finally going to Yasothorn, a small remote village north-east of Thailand closer to the Laotian border than Bangkok.
The reason for me heading to a place seldom frequented by visitors, who as a norm make a beeline for Thailand’s beautiful and at times, hedonistic southern coast was to meet Ariyaporn – my sponsor child of four and something years, who I took on when I first left university and commenced my first full time job back in late 2000. Maybe it was just the subconscious lobotomising effect of too many hours spent staring at Worldvision ads on daytime TV, but some over earnest do godder, almost conceited streak in me had always wanted to ‘have’ a sponsor child – as if it was like a Prada handbag or something - and as a I got to the stage in my life where regular income was the norm rather than the exception, my excuse for not ‘having’ one had well and truly run out. So I picked a large, reputed agency that had a low admin expense ratio, ticked a few boxes, filled out a few direct debit forms, and away I went. Before I knew it I had set up a blind date with destiny with a girl whom I had previously only known through annual ‘progress reports’, letters, and the odd photo.
At the break of dawn the following day, our night bus from Bangkok rolled into a misty, shabby town. ‘Yasothorn’ announces the bus driver, and moments later we were booted out of the bus and dumped by the side of the road with our backpacks laden with gifts - jetlagged, bedraggled, grubby, dazed, and confused. And although it was only 5am, lines of solemn monks in their saffron robes shuffled wordless along the streets with large metal bowls collecting food donations from pious villagers who dutifully placed a serving of food in their bowls as each walk by.
This was not the Thailand they advertised on billboards. No sand and surf. No full moon parties. In fact, most of the people here have probably never set eyes on a beach.
Later that day, a small contingent (including an English/Thai translator) awaits us in the foyer of our pre booked hotel room to take us to Ariyaporn’s home, a rural village along a dirt road about twenty minutes from the Yasothorn town centre. Decked in their pastel coloured polo shirts bearing the organisation’s logo, I felt like I was being flanked by a professional cheer squad rather than a team of aid project workers.
The ensuing hours were surreal and somewhat unexpected. I was ‘patron’, freak show, object of affection, centre of attention, and reluctant star all rolled into one the moment our hired minivan rolled into her village. I suppose despite all the years of wishful thinking and personal excitement over meeting Ariaporn I had never thought very much about what the actual meeting would be like – perhaps I did, but I thought it would be altogether a very low key affair consisting of cups of tea and cheesy Kodak shots. Little did I know. Instead I was greeted by the noise and cacophony of a reception hosted by not only her family but an entire rural village. You’d think that some minor ex-president had rolled into town. The moment I stepped off the minivan they a jasmine wreath was bestowed upon me and my travelling companion and the circus began. A Buddhist priest was there for blessings and prayers, followed by a large multi course feast in the region cuisine. Barring from moments at my twenty first birthday party, I had never been at the centre of attention of so many people, and despite being incredibly flattered, the experience left me somewhat overwhelmed and slightly ill at ease. Still I was, is, and will always be utterly grateful for the kindness and hospitality of the villagers who despite their relative poverty, had gone to so much trouble put on such an show for me and my travelling companion. In this instance, there was nothing cheesy about the land of smiles and its genuinely hospitable and generous people. And of course, nestled in my arms was this tiny, but gorgeous, affectionate, smiling little girl who looks up at me with the excitement that only children are capable of.
After our midday feast I was scooted off to for a walking tour of the village and surrounds where I got to feed some of the family’s cows, inspect the child’s lodgings, (essentially a half finished double storey wooden shack), and visited her brother who had been sent to a nearby monastery (as the family could no longer afford to feed, clothe, and educate him) and the school which she attended where we were once again they laid out the VIP treatment.
Jetlagged and exhausted, we were finally dropped off to our ‘3 star best in Yasothorn’ hotel room early in the afternoon. With little to do in the tiny sleepy town of Yasothorn, and unable to visit Ariyaporn’s village again (all visits must be fully chaperoned by the project staff), we boarded another night bus bound for Bangkok later that evening.
The euphoria of the visit aside, it took some time for me to fully register what the visit mean to me on a personal scale. My travelling companion had sensed this and so it wasn’t until some two weeks later when we were lying on the glorious, hedonistic beaches of southern Thailand (a stark contrast to the poverty of the NE where land locked Yasothorn is located) when we both mulled over whether we were glad to have ‘gone through with it’. What should have be an unconditional yes turns into a very slow guarded yes – on face value of course I was overjoyed to have met such a gorgeous, bright, and lively girl whom I’m partially supporting to raise, but for anyone who’s been there, done that, the visit raises a quagmire of thorny and delicate questions.
Perhaps it’s because deep down, I suffer from some twisted version Catholic guilt – I had noticed this while travelling through the more remote (and infinitely poorer) regions of China last year, but the visit to Yasothorn only served to highlight the socio economic inequality between myself and the rural villagers whose livelihoods are dependent on subsistence farming. I can only lay claims to a very modest conventional state school upbringing in Melbourne – but my parents, like most, sought to give us the best start to life. Though well intentioned, it was at times pushy, competitive, and downright oppressive, but I can only look back and honestly say they did the best they could with what they had, and credit to them my sister (who’s currently finishing her arts/law/languages degree at Monash) and I were never held back from who we wanted to be and what we wanted to do and achieve because of where we came from, or the family we were born into. Whatever our shortcomings or failures– personally, intellectually, professionally, financially, and to a lesser extent spiritually, are a product of our own (in)actions and decisions. Until quite recently I had quite arrogantly assumed that that was my birthright – to be given an equal chance to live my life as I choose – and it was only last year did I come to the realisation that it was, and remains a rare privilege available to few acquired through fate, and incredible stroke of luck to be born at the right time, at the right place, to the right parents. Like people I know who I know have been to third world destinations, the realisation that the majority of the world are bound to a life of drudgery and the vicious cycle of poverty through no fault of their own combined with the recognition that I am no smarter nor have worked harder than anyone else to achieve what I have (modest by first world standards, extravagant by third world standards) consumes me with a fair degree of guilt, not withstanding that I feel I work hard for my money.
Having said that, I (and I can only speak for myself) still don’t think that I can completely white wash social responsibility and obligation to give under the guise of the all too common ‘it’s my money, I worked hard for it, and I can do whatever I want’ mantra. The recent Live8 campaign, unlike the original Live Aid, focused heavily on placing pressure on the leaders of wealthy nations to take responsibility for the plight of the third world through macro policies - primarily fair trade and debt cancellation. Sounds good – and all of it is crucially important. But responsibility doesn’t just lie on the shoulders of Bush, Blair, and their lackeys. Individuals from privileged first world countries also have a role to ‘Making Poverty History’ by helping to shape aid – in the way is funded, distributed, managed and accounted for. Imagines of disease ridden small African children with bloated pot bellies dripping with flies shocked the world back in 1985 and poured hundreds of millions of personal funds into immediate aid, and while well intentioned and critical it is only with the benefit of retrospection that it was not a long term solution to ending the cycle of dire poverty. Once off bequests are critical in cases of emergency like the recent tsunami, but in most cases, a much more long term, sustained effort is required to help turn the fortunes of a generation and the communities they live in. This is because kids, once fed and rescued from the brink of starvation at feeding centres at a minimum, need to be fed, immunised, and educated to basic literacy to have any chance of leading normal, self sufficient lives, meaning that they have some chance of being able to provide for their own children.
One of the most effective forms of contributing to this goal by individuals is via child sponsorship, because it means that you make a long term commitment to help raise and educate a child less privileged than yourself and until it is eighteen, via the all too convenient means of a direct debit to your bank account or credit card every month. In return (assuming you go through a reputable agency) it ensures that a child somewhere has basics such as school fees and uniforms, lunch at school, immunisations, and medical care provided for, and that his/her community has access to resources (pooled from a group of sponsors) to essential items like clean water, shelter and farming implements.
For around the cost of a round of Friday night drinks or a meal in a trendy bistro each month, the excuses not to ‘have’ at least one sponsor child runs thin for urban professional like myself, especially when I have seen with my own eyes that where the project is managed well, it does work, and that it has, and will hopefully continue to make a difference. In my instance, my hope is that if Ariyaporn continues to be the bright pupil that her principal says she is, she’ll be able to go to university, become economically independent, support her own parents, and that in time, no one will ever have to sponsor her children. Maybe that’s too earnest, na?ve, and idealistic of me to believe it, but having walked through some of Bangkok’s the infamous red light districts where Thai women and children are wretched living breathing commodities for lecherous farangs (Thai for foreigners) and their carnal desires, my genuine hope is that Ariyaporn has the same prerogative as me in deciding her own fate, and not be hampered by her family’s economic status. Whatever this means she chooses to attend Chualalongkorn (Thailand’s Oxford), or to become a stay at home mum at sixteen, I hope, will be her own choice, and hers alone. I make no illusions that what I’m trying to say is neither new nor revolutionary (in fact I’m sure I’m parroting some aid agency ad), nor do I believe that I am doing anything grand like saving the world, but I have seen it, and I believe in it enough to risk being labelled an idealistic, narcissistic fool.
Nor am I advocating that child sponsorship is a flawless form or method of aid – like any form of giving it has its own list of legitimate shortcomings (like whether a child in a needy community should ever be ‘singled’ out, or whether this would only unnecessarily humiliate his/her parents to name a few)– but in an often selfish, shallow, and contrived world where friendships, loyalties, and relationships come and go, I had, and continue to find sponsoring Ariyaporn (and others) one of the most rewarding aspects of my life. I know it sounds incredibly cheesy, but I’ll happily let my guard down say this without cynicism - Knowing that Ariyaporn is as much, if not more a gift to me as I am to her makes all of it incredibly worthwhile. I could only encourage anyone else with the means and will to do the same.
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This article is Copyright © 2005 by Camy Wong. |
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