Peace Corps compares life as a volunteer to living in a fish bowl. From day one I decided this wasn’t a good analogy because I’ve never seen anyone pay much attention to a fish bowl. After five months I’ve finally found a more appropriate comparison: a parade!
Last month I was invited to practice dancing, and then dance in a parade with the other women in my host family’s village.
The parade was part of the ‘Bun Bang Fai Festival’ (tour books call it the Rocket Festival) that marks the beginning of the rainy season. The festival is a plea for a rainy rainy season (among other things).
I spent the weekend of the festival with my host family (I had moved into a rental house at the beginning of May). On the morning of the parade, my host mother woke me up, saying ‘Jeannine, Jeannine, my friend will do your hair.’ I felt very tired and very confused. (What time is it anyways? Did I sleep at all? Did I oversleep?). I could hear the sounds of drunk men. (Had they been up all night or was this round 2?) I pushed my confusion aside and I agreed to getting ready to go get my hair done. Then looked at my phone. It was 5:03 a.m. Could it be possible that someone’s going to do my hair at 5 a.m.? Maybe my host mother had joined in on the drinking and didn’t know what time of day it was?
It turned out my host mother was well aware of the time of day. She took me to a very large house in the village where two people were already doing hair. (It was 5:15 a.m.)
By 6 a.m. my hair was done and villagers where walking and riding down the street. One of my grandmas told me there was a wedding party in the village. ‘Want to go?’ she asked. Sure, why not. I’m already awake. So I went and ate at someone’s wedding party with my grandmas.
At 7 a.m. I was back from the wedding. Shortly thereafter a woman came to tell me it was time to have my makeup done. All four of these people have Y chromosomes.
None of the women sitting around (these are the women I would be dancing with) would take a picture of me, but one of the young men in the previous picture took pity.
Tada! Hair, check. Makeup, check. It was 8 a.m. My host sister had had me put on her rockin shirt so that I could take it off without messing up my hair.
It took five hours to get everyone’s makeup done. Meanwhile we just sat. And sat. And sat. While we were sitting, the mayor of my sub-district came by to give the beauticians (I hesitate to call them that, but it’s all relative) more beer. The mayor also spent quite a bit of time making sure that I would not wear my glasses while dancing in the parade. Finally, someone decided it was time to get dressed.
It took oh, I don’t know, 40 minutes of dressing me and undressing me before all of the women in the dance group were satisfied with my appearance. Everyone had a slightly different idea about how high my belts should be arranged, or where the flower should be pinned on my shirt.
Around 2 p.m. someone decided we all needed touch ups.
Around 2:30 p.m. it was finally time to line up for the parade. Each section of each village had a section in the parade. This sign announces my section. It was hot, even relative to other days in Thailand (or maybe it was just the hairspray).
Our leader in pink is a first grade teacher at my primary school.
My host cousin took my camera and darted around the villages (two) to take pictures of different parts of the parade. He took most of the pictures in this post. I appreciated his creativity (Until this point the only pictures I’ve been able to get people to take are the awkward posed kind).
Here’s one of the inevitable groups of intoxicated men that joins every parade.
During the parade I felt less conspicuous that I’ve felt in six months. People didn’t start shouting ‘farang!’ (white foreigner) until I was right in front of them. (Normally I hear ‘farang!’ shouted down streets and across markets) When I showed up at school the following Monday, my co-teacher told me that people had been talking about the farang dancing in the parade at her husband’s restaurant, about nine miles away. And a few even got in/on their vehicles to come watch.
Interrupting parades to take pictures is normal. This is one of my grandmas and her grandson.
I didn’t wear my glasses, and everything was a blur, which ended up contributing to my frustration toward the end of the day.
The parade ended in a clearing by the village temple. A stage and all the trimmings and the mayor and large groups of villagers were there to greet us. Each group of dancers (from the different sections of the village) performed a dance. I’m somewhere off to the left side of this picture. I was mentioned in several speeches by several important men, which made the women who’d been rather cold all day suddenly start smiling at me.
roommate! this is a great post. a love all the photos, which really bring your story to life! fanang? for some reason, that sounds like a bad word to me. haha. i’m glad that you blended in.
Ok Jeannine one omission – how did you learn the steps and the hand motions?
You look like a doll and your picture (profile / walking ) is blown up and posted in my office. Now you are a famous fanang in Princeton NJ as well.
oh right! so there was dance practice every day for a month, but i only went 4 times because going to practice involved biking to my host family’s village in the evening and spending the night at their house (which i find stressful when there’s work the next day).
Jeannine – you look so ‘happy’!!!!!! or is that just like the happy clown where it is all paint? hugs and kisses to you!!!!!!!!
hm. the short answer is… mostly paint.
oh, the joys of being singled out. in indonsia it’s bule. a parade is a perfect description for that feeling. and it never stops. congrats on getting into the parade. that’s the sorta stuff you’ll remember for years.
You are awesome. This is awesome. The pictures are awesome. You look awesome. Awesome.
Oh, Jeannine, the dancing must have been fun, but if I’d had to sit and sit and sit for hours I fear I would have pulled out all my done hair! What great pictures and a great adventure.
I like what you said too about being in a parade and/or being on stage. I felt that way when I lived in Korea, lo these many years ago now. We were tall blonds, you know. Once we went to a tiny museum in a small village, and as I walked from exhibit to exhibit, a pack of short people hovered around me, staring up at me as I looked down at the display, moving as I moved. Often, especially on buses, people curiously rubbed the thick blond hair on Maurice’s arms.
Love, Jan S.
students pet me too!