A Final Goodbye in Thailand

A Final Goodbye in Thailand

Forks were a luxury in a place without toilets or running water. When your daily existence depends upon the secrecy of your location, survival itself takes precedence over dirty hands.

I’d been living in Mae Hong Son province for three months, used to scooping up rice with a bare hand or stabbing fish heads with a flat Chinese spoon. Yet as the students prepared for our good-bye feast, I noticed the cutlery gleaming proudly next to stacks of mismatched plates and glasses.

My co-workers and students in the Karenni National Women’s Organization (KNOW) – a group working to improve the status of ethnic Burmese refugees living inside the Thai border – were technically illegal. They had no right to run a school, reside at an address or carry a passport. No right to be in Thailand at all.

But for just one evening, these security concerns would be ignored. Instead of dining quietly at the big oak table, we pushed furniture and routine aside to celebrate the relationships formed since my volunteer placement began.

Rosie and Shal Gay carefully laid bed mats on the floor as seating, and the erratic electricity became festive lighting.

Even the dinner looked glamorous. My stomach had long adapted to wild ingredients, from small birds to the “jungle beast” that turned out to be one unlucky monkey. But the meat strips now sizzling on hotpots cost money: chicken thighs, slices of beef – and was that bacon?

“Thebwe, thank you so much for everything.” I gestured at the spread with open palms, honored at the optimistic sendoff.

“We want to show thebwe to you, too.” Mie Mie retrieved a surprise bottle of Coca Cola from the fridge. “Where are you going tomorrow?”

Traveling was a rarely-discussed subject. For many of the students, the concept had been misconstrued by ten or more years in a refugee camp. To wander for pure entertainment – and not to escape a military regime – seemed utter extravagance.

“Bangkok, a stopover in South Korea and then home,” I explained.

“You are so lucky to be American. You are free to go anywhere in the world.”

Mie Mie’s frank admiration stopped the pre-programmed moan in my throat. I typically responded to such statements by quoting the limited number of working visas I could get, or how difficult it had been to enter Myanmar last month. Only in comparison to the limitations of my co-workers did a U.S. birth suddenly sound appealing.

“You will remember us after you go? We will miss you, Teacher,” Shal Gay chimed in.

Embarrassment flooded my cheeks. Why was I leaving? Because three months felt like an eternity after years on the road? Or, because it was easier to hide behind the bravado of a departure, rather than challenge myself by staying?

“Of course! I will never forget any of you. And one day, I promise I’ll be back to help the Karenni cause…”

I also wanted to promise that, like them, I didn’t need a passport. I would burn mine up, or rip out the pages and watch them wash down the open drain that ran through KNWO’s outdoor kitchen.

But I couldn’t. That blue book – the one I sometimes flipped through with glossy sentimentality, rubbing visas and studying faded dates – was my ticket to independence.

“Soon, you will get your visas and can visit me in the States!” I teased Mie Mie, hinting at a joyful reunion we had no control over. Her family waited patiently for official U.N. Refugee Status. Until then, the only trips she could take were clandestine jaunts between the office and camp.

“We will see.” She grinned and shrugged with typical Karenni fatalism.

Mi Nyo called out the beginning of dinner. Tongs hungrily snatched up the roasting meats, mingling spices into the air with wisps of different languages. The students wrapped me up in a handmade longyi and I, surprised by a sudden wetness at the corners of my eyes, repeated my promise to return someday.

Later, after the forks found their way back to the cabinet and bare feet shuffled students and teachers off to bed, I considered this vow.

During the previous months, I’d practiced the ritual 100 times: scribbling in my journal one final promise to cherish other people and return to other places. Always convinced that a fearless explorer sought out new destinations, while a cowardly one contentedly stayed behind.

For once in this journey, I recognized how tentative such courage could be. At 7:00 tomorrow morning, the honk of the town’s only tuktuk would signal my release. At that moment, remaining here would require more audacity than driving away.

So in the end, I wrote nothing. Memories meant more than words. Stretched out under the mosquito net, I fell asleep with my passport in my hand.

About the Author: Kelli’s parents lament the fact that their desk-working, mortgage-paying daughter was traded at birth for the perpetually moving, always broke girl who now writes home… Unwilling to settle down in small town USA, Kelli would rather live out of a backpack than a closet. And so she continues searching for fresh stories, smiling faces, spicy foods and reasons to celebrate.

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