The Maverick Tribe

Well, I had my first couple of job interviews today. This is how finding a teaching job in Bangkok works. First you look in the newspaper or on the internet for schools and language institutes with open positions. You then call up the schools and arrange for an interview. The address for most places reflect the labrynthine nature of the city. "471/16 Soi 4 (Soi Jaelang) Thanon Ramaboromratchamadicarmthepthani Ngarm" is a typical example, which I think translates as "building number 471 on alleyway 4, also known as alleyway Jaelang, on the sixteenth side street after the bridge over the road of King Rama the Fourth who did many great wonderful things for the nation during his powerful, flawless reign".

Of course, none of that matters since none of the buildings are numbered and not many more of the streets are either. And the street you're looking for will not be on any map, since one couldn't possibly be drawn that reflects the endless number of streets and alleyways and flyovers and canals that make up this cobweb of a city. I guess the attitude in Bangkok is that if you don't already know exactly where your destination is, you probably don't want to be going there anyway.

At any rate, you fight the horrendously slow traffic and oppressive heat in the back of a cab to some landmark that you know is nearby; then you ask everyone in sight where the school you're looking for sits. The Thais are more than eager to help out a lost farang, but most don't know what the hell you're talking about. Finally you look for a pay phone so you can call up the school for guidance. The pay phone you find is out of order, so you weave through a maze of food stalls and women hawking phony Versace sunglasses for two blocks to the next phone, dashing across streets to avoid getting mowed over by an oncoming tuk-tuk. You finally call up the school and the person on the other end can't hear a word you're saying because someone is revving a motorbike three feet from your head. Once you finally establish communication, the receptionist gives you some guidance in broken English, you plow back through the deluge of street vendors and pedestrians and, after asking five separate people along the way, you finally locate the building.

By this time, your eyes are red and sweat is dripping from your chin. You run into the men's room and splash water on your face, as you realize that there are no paper towels or toilet paper to be had anywhere. You stand in the bathroom for five minutes waiting for your face and hands to dry. (My primary mission here is to teach English; my secondary one is to introduce the luxury of paper products to this country.  Children, repeat after me:  “NAP-KIN”.)

You then go out and meet the director of the school, who ignores your resume and explains the qualifications that Thais look for in their English teachers. There are three.

1) You must speak right (non-localized American accents are the best, to match Brad Pitt and Sigourney Weaver)2) you must look right (white skin is a must, blond hair and blue eyes are an advantage), and -- I'm not kidding here

3) you must smell right. 

Tough standards in this, the land of tropical climes and ubiquitous fish sauce. While the interviewer wasn't looking I took a quick whiff of my armpit and decided that I need to work on the last qualification, although the first two I think I have nailed. I guess the interviewer didn't notice my odor; he gave me his approval for the way that I smelled.

What the hell am I doing? The Thais think I'm off my rocker. Why on earth would I leave a well-paying, professional career in great, shining, opulent America to come sweat it out teaching in, of all places, Thailand ? How do I explain to these people my natural affinity for things exotic? Of my desire to be witness to a different human experience than the one into which I was born? Of my longing to have more children in my life? Of my need to escape the association of white American jerk-offs with big salaries and egos to match? Maybe the Thais are right. Maybe I am a severely disturbed son of a bitch. Maybe I should run, run away now.

My next interview is tomorrow at 11. I'll need a good night's sleep before then.