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After being named the Toastmaster of the Year in my Club, word started to trickle through the people I work with. A few club members work with me. 
I love that I live in an area where the 
This tree was so cold...
Looking across the park, through the chilly air, bright flames of colour leap out and warm my heart.
These trees make me wrap my jacket even tighter around myself... but even with my cold fingers and wet nose, I can't help but love the colours of the trees.
... well... a section of it anyway. I have to be honest and say that I have made a lot of progress in the area of Public Speaking and owe all of my new skills and cofidence to the club and its members.
At work, I am currently preparing some students for a public speaking competition. This is my first time to organise the students for this competition and felt relatively confident in their readiness for next week's competition. Another, more experienced teacher has expressed real confidence in some of the students and has marvelled at the way I have prepared them.... It's all down to Toastmasters. (I'll let you know how the students do.)
A few years ago, I adopted two cute orang-utans. Their little faces were filled with their huge, round eyes. Their limbs were long, skinny and covered with fine fur. Now, the two orang-utans are older and almost ready to think about leaving their rehabilitation centre... they are preparing to move off through the trees to an
independent life in the forest.I adopted Lear. Lear was a young male who was four months old when he arrived at the rehabilitation centre. A local villager had found him and then brought him to the centre. Now, he is four and a half years old and weighs eleven and a half kilograms.
This is what the rehabilitation centre have said about Lear: Lear is a little cheeky and likes to play jokes and he looks funny too! He loves to grab onto people’s clothes, steal their hats and pull at them. He has a big smile and likes to bite everything he can. You can’t but like him and he has lots of orang-utan friends. His best friends at the Care Centre are Hayes and Morgan, two other orphans. His favourite foods are rambutan and oranges. His carers are teaching him about the best and tastiest fruits.
The other orang-utan I adopted is named Roy. He’s five now. When Roy arrived at the centre, he was 10 months old. He had been confiscated by officials, which saved him from a life lived in a cage as a pet or perhaps being sent overseas to be sold.
He weighs 14 kilograms now.
This is the information I have on Roy: Roy is very playful and boisterous and loves to play rough with his friends Sidney, Tim and Dora. He has fun with his carers, teasing them whenever he can. He loves to climb and is very active, so he has no trouble finding his way in the forest. He knows how to make a nest to rest in during the day and knows where to find all the different foods in the forest. Roy was brought to the Care Centre at the age of 10 months after being confiscated by the Police and over the years he has learnt how to be independent. He is a fast learner and loves his food.
The future of the orang-utans is still depressing. Extinction in the wild is likely in the next 10 years for Sumatran Orang-utans and soon after for Bornean Orang-utans. Their intelligence is comparable to that of a five or six year old child. I first adopted the orang-utans when I had a young niece and a baby nephew. The ages of the orang-utans and the ages of my niece and nephew are close. We’re so closely related to these beautiful animals and it has been fun hearing how quickly Roy and Lear are growing up. I adopted these two orang-utans through the organisation known as The Australian Orang-utan Program.
This is their website: http://www.orangutan.org.au/
As I cleaned up the music storeroom, locked the doors 
I don't understand this! It is like another language - a language which I never learned. It is full of secret symbols and encrypted messages. I recognise some of the symbols.... I even know some musical terms. I know that there is a line of notes in the top picture - but those notes with the tails... and those ones where they join up at the top... I'm lost.
So, I was surprised when I was asked to replace our music teacher while she was away on holidays. This teacher is lovely. She's energetic and enthusiastic and our students are lucky to have her as their teacher. She is very efficient and highly organised, and for this, I am very grateful. It was her efficiency which made her type up a few sheets of paper for me. These sheets of paper were my lifeline and I clung to them desperately during the first week. On these pages, she told me where I needed to be and when I needed to be there. She told me which resources I needed to take with me, which storeroom I would find the resources in and the best times to collect, set up, clean and return the sources. I followed her detailed notes absolutely and relied on them totally. They were constantly with me and never far from my reach.
By the second week, I was beginning to feel more confident. This allowed my child-like curiosity and energy to set in. I began looking through the storerooms to find interesting instruments. This is one instrument I found... 
I love these! I started to carry the rainstick around to all of my classes. I would sit in front of the students and play the instrument. Their little faces would light up and they would watch with excitement. Then, I would tell them that the rainstick had nothing to do with the lesson. I told them that I loved the rainstick and was playing just because it was so cool. Then I would go on with my lesson.
Then they would get a hammer or stone and hammer the thorns back through the cactus. They would push the thorns into the cactus, so that the centre of the branch was a mass of thorns - layers on layers of thorns. 
The tribesmen would seal off one end of the branch. Then, they poured dried berries, pebbles or grain into the branch and sealed off the top end. Each time they turned the branch, gravity would push the pebbles or grain to the lowest point of the branch. As the pebbles fell towards the lowest point, they would hit each of the thorns. 
I recently re-read a book. The story is heartbreaking... but its also a story of hope.
This post is inspired by that story.
In Ethiopia, much of the population live in remote areas – often hundreds of kilometres from the nearest road. Water supplies are unreliable, hygiene is poor and money is difficult to come by.
Ethiopian culture sees girls married when they are about 12 years old. Due to malnutrition, their bodies are not yet able to bear children. By the age of 15, most of the girls will be pregnant with their first child. Being so far from a hospital, they will have no care during their pregnancy and will deliver their baby in their small hut. Sometimes, the birth goes well and the community welcomes a new child. More often, the labour does not go well.
It is not unusual for these girls to be in labour for 5 days – even longer. The unborn baby is unable to live with the constant pressure of a constricting uterus. After two days of pressure, most of the babies die inside their mother. The young mother remains in labour for a few more days. She has to wait for her unborn child to shrink in size before her small body can deliver it.
This difficult labour causes a tear, or a hole to form between her bladder and uterus. This tear is called an obstetric fistula. Through the fistula, urine dribbles constantly and uncontrollably down the girl’s legs. In the worst cases, urine and faeces will drip down her legs, 24 hours a day.
The young girl now has to deal with the death of her first child. She is exhausted and in pain. She is now living with a new condition, which repulses everyone around her, regardless of how hard she tries to keep herself clean. Very often, her husband will not be able to tolerate her smell and will divorce her. He will leave her to a life of abandonment and shame. She will be forced to live separately from the community.
Some women live with this condition their whole life. Others would have died from infections resulting from their fistula. The lucky ones find their way to a Fistula Hospital.
In 1959, two doctors travelled from Australia to work in an Ethiopian hospital. Their first fistula girl broke their hearts and they dedicated their lives to these girls.
Now, in 2010, Doctor Catherine Hamlin is still living in Ethiopia, still treating fistula patients. (She buried her husband in an Ethiopian graveyard.)
The book “Hospital By The River” was written by Dr C. Hamlin. In it, she shares the stories of many of her patients. Many of the girls walked kilometres to reach the hospital. Others were carried for days by a father or husband. Some of the older women had to wait for over a decade in order to save enough money to afford a bus ticket to the hospital.
Since the doctors arrived in Ethiopia, more than 30 000 women have been cured of their fistula. The operation is relatively simple. Women with extensive damage or scarring may need more than one operation. The hospital has maintained a 93% success rate for decades.
The fistula doctors have taught many other doctors to perform this operation. These doctors are now repairing fistulas in other countries. Ethiopia now has 3 fistula hospitals and another two hospitals are currently being built. Some doctors are living in remote areas, monitoring pregnancies, assisting with deliveries and repairing fistulas where needed.
Many of the hospital’s nursing staff were once fistula girls. They arrived at the hospital downcast and shame-faced. These girls now wear a smile on their beautiful faces. They welcome new patients to the hospitals. What’s the cost of this smile?
US$300. For three hundred American dollars, a girl will have her fistula repaired. She will receive her surgery, all medications, three weeks in hospital and a new dress to wear home. No patient has ever paid for her treatment.
The hospitals are registered charities. The administrators work voluntarily. They promise that every cent from every dollar goes to the hospitals and to the patients. Visit the website to see the smiling faces of girls who no longer have to live with an obstetric fistula. Read the books. The fistula girls are worth it.
A recent trip to a Buddhist Temple proved to be a reminder of the calm that washes over me when I sit in the protective temples. Wafts of incense drift across the air, stimulating my memory. Statues of the Buddha gaze down on me. The respectful sounds of hushed voices float around me as I feel my stresses and worries drift away with the incense.
I woke up one morning, not long after arriving in Thailand and this is what was happening! 
What an unbelievably fun time this was! 
I still remember seeing piles of food at each of the four corners. So much food was being donated to the monks and the temples as people welcomed in the new year. They were making a fresh start and earning merit by doing good.
Soon after we had handed our food to the monks, I was given a tiny bird. It was in a small, bamboo cage. I didn't know what I was supposed to do - but gestures indicated that I was to open the cage and let the little bird go free. This was another way to earn merit. Another new and interesting experience..jpg)
Songran
Happy Thai New Year
Agong was my Grandfather while I was an exchange student. As a Chinese businessman, he’d set up the family shop and still greeted salesmen with a smile and authority.
I rarely spoke to my Agong. Sometimes, I’d be asked to sit at his desk, where we’d hardly talk – just be together. He’d grin at me. He’d pat my head. He’d buy me an ice-cream when he bought his other grandchildren one.
Agong was proud of me. He didn’t tell me – I just know. I felt it and I loved him in return.
He died last year. He’d told his family when it would happen and - surprising no one, he was right.
The Chinese say you should not be too sad when someone dies. That would mean that you did not think that they had lived a good life.
After we had learned the dance, we dressed up and perormed in front of a large gathering of people. I was doing ok - keeping up and everything.... and then I noticed someone move to the front and aim a video camera at me. I became flustered and self-consious... and then - my candle blew out and everything fell apart. Hopefully, I was good enough that not too many people noticed!
Here's the hair do - it took hours to get it up in this style and days to get the knots out again!
Check out the make up in the last photo! I remember that after myfirst experience, I insisited that the make-up be reduced to one thick coating. (See picture above!) I also insisted that red was not a great colour on me. I learned this after giving them free range over me for the first dance (see picture below!)
Here I am, leading the Year 11 girls around my town's streets... 
I am pretty sure that the guys are digging for those pesky crabs and us girls, well... we are probably lifting up the basketful of crabs in celebration of a great catch! 
Do you notice the looks of joy on everyone's face... I can't remember, but lets say that we danced like this for at least an hour!
see... elegant - not so much.
sweaty - definitely!
Graceful...
Elegant...
Poised...
Me performing Thai Dance –
Slimy with sweat...
elephant-like movements...
Uncoordinated...
After four months in Thailand, the school was preparing for a dancing parade. Over 120 Year 11 students would dance through the streets of my little Thai town. Each day at school, the student would line up and rehearse their dance. Being an uncoordinated foreigner, with no connections to the Year 11 students, I was hardly surprised when they made me dance, too... Right at the start of the parade!
There I was, sweat pouring from my make-up packed face, hair frizzed, knotted and teased beyond all recognition - dancing. We danced our way down all the streets. A microphone wilding man enjoyed screaming out to the audience that a foreigner was leading their parade. With every eye on me, I pretended to know the dances well. Whenever I was in doubt about the steps – I smiled and they clapped. I have long since forgotten the dance, but vaguely remember something about pulling mud crabs from a woven net. Half way through one of the dances, a local village lady rushed towards me. She had betel nut stained teeth and a crooked smile. Mid dance, she thrust a baby into my arms. Feeling a little bewildered, I smiled and posed for her photographs. Handing back the baby, I was handed a tissue – to wipe the rivers of sweat from my face. This done, I went back to dancing.
While relations with my host mother were already strained to breaking point, I accidently said something very insulting about her. In Thailand, saving face is the ever-sought after option. I’d made her lose face. I was beginning to speak and understand Thai. And yet... I still found myself becoming lost during conversations with my host mother. Finally, and with considerate relief, I learned that she usually spoke the local dialect – the North Eastern language, or Laos. I couldn’t understand her because she wasn’t speaking Thai!
I mentioned to someone that my “mother speaks Laos”. What I had actually said was that the woman spoke like a crazy person. By the time I was advised of my mistake, I was feeling pretty guilty. Finally, one of my host mother’s friends told me what I had really said. Without thinking, I said “I know”. This was taken as me knowing what I had said when I said it.... meaning to suggest that my host mother spoke like a crazy person. My words had thrown me into a downward spiral.... My foot was firmly embedded in my mouth and no amount of digging was going to get me out of my comments.
Already strained relationships stretched and pulled even further. I don’t think my host mother and I ever understood each other. We certainly never developed a positive rapport and my time with her was never pleasant. To this day, I feel certain that the family only hosted a foreigner to place themselves in higher esteem within the community. I was their token charity case. My pale skin, light eyes and “Australianess” gave them credit. The fact that the whole community knew of me, spoke of me and pointed me out gave them the attention they greedily desired. By the time the novelty of the exchange student wore off, the community were talking about me too much and my host sister become desperately jealous and vindictive. No one has treated me as poorly as my host sister did. My head shakes in wonder at how my young self lived through her constant torments. Was it inner strength or was I verging too much on naivety? Perhaps I was stubborn enough not to let her ruin my time in Thailand – though at times, she went very close!
While my understanding of Buddhism was just developing, it was firmly embedded in my mind that touching monks was bad.
Females just didn’t make contact with monks!
Males pass anything over to a monk. When no males are around, females have to place objects for the monk on a silver tray, which sits on the floor. The monk then picks up the object. As a female, you just don’t’ touch the monks.
If you are moving house, only males carry the Buddha Statues to the removalist truck. Females don't even touch the statues.
You can understand then, that I was stunned when a Thai man approached me with a most unusual question.
“Do you kiss the monk?”
My mind spun... my eyes goggled and I was left choking on an answer. “No! I don’t kiss the monks.” After much confused conversation, we finally understood each other. My reputation remained unsoiled as recognition washed over me. “Yes, I am a Christian.”
In Thai, Christianity is shortened to “Chrissed”. The man had asked me whether I was a Christian. Even though I was developing an understanding of the language, many things still got lost in the translation.
Within my first week as an exchange student I’d eaten congealed blood.
From my diary – “Ate blood for breakfast – it was ok, until I found out what it was! I made a silent promise to avoid it in the future!”
It’s a jelly-like consistency... a purple-brown colour...The texture is soft and squishy – a little like tofu.
Apparently, it is full of goodness, but the churning of my stomach at the thought of eating it prevented me from absorbing any more of the “goodness”. Mai aroy!
After my first month as an exchange student, I was unbelievably excited to be conversing in English. I was at an English Camp with a group of other exchange students.
It’s almost impossible to imagine not knowing the local language of a country. At 16, I was unable to watch TV and understand it. Radio and newspapers were beyond me. I couldn’t read a comic book. I couldn’t even speak! My two year old cousin was more advanced than me. He used words far beyond my vocabulary. I could barely stumble through "Hello. How are you?"
Time passes so slowly when you cannot interact with anyone.
Over time, as boredom settled over me, as Thai life became routine and mundane, I taught myself to read and write Thai.
Giggles followed me as I studied my Thai alphabet. Kindergarten students were learning what I was.
Giggles became smiles as I started recognising letters of the Thai alphabet.
Smiles became grins as I started reading words.
Smiles widen with pride as my Thai family listened while I read sentences from the newspaper. Menus were now given to me to read and I was asked what I would like to order. Cartoon books filled in endless afternoons as I studied theThai language.
I was on my way! I was reading Thai!
I just met up with a girl from my past. She stunned me with her courage, her bravery, wisdom and strength.
She revealed so much in just a few words and my heart jolted and jumped as she told me her story.
At 16, she’d left everything she’d known. She threw herself into a new and strange world. Like a chameleon, she changed and adapted herself to better blend into her new life.
Blending wasn’t easy. Living amongst the petite members of her new community, she was like a giant, stumbling and tripping her way across a cultural divide.
Words and language became uncertain. She could no longer rely on them. So many things were new and challenging and could only be learned through observation and imitation.
How tired she felt, riding the rollercoaster. She danced in the extreme highs and almost drowned in the bottomless lows. Time flew and yet she counted the months, the weeks, the days, the minutes, the seconds. How much longer?!
Some of the people she met still bring an effortless smile to her much older face.
Some of the people she met still make her cringe and shudder.
Though the things she did feel like a lifetime ago, so many of them remain firmly embedded in her memory. They echo the changes in her. Their impact left an influence so strong that she’s only now beginning to realise its depths.
She’s me. She’s my 16 year old self, stumbling off a jet plane and being thrown into the throngs of a complicated Thai family.
My first thoughts of Thailand were of the orange coloured sky, the strange smell and the heavy heat. Anyone landing in Thailand now would think these same thoughts.
In future blogs, I will share some of the stories my year as an exchange student in the North East of Thailand.
I worry. I worry about the little things. I worry about my weight and how much I’ve put on over the Christmas holidays. I worry whether my clothes still fit. I worry whether the clothes I wear even match. What about the shoes? Do the shoes match my clothes? I worry about bigger things. I worry about my car and whether it will live until its next service. I worry about work and whether I will get enough of it. I worry about paying the bills. I worry about the mortgage. What if I have to sell my house?
I’ve always worried. When I was younger, I always thought I would end up with a stomach ulcer by the time I was in my 20’s.
Then I went to Thailand. I was working in Bangkok and lived close to the Mekong River. Many weekends, I would walk down to the river. I’d lean against a filthy railing and watch people rushing from the boats. The river had the worst stink I have ever smelled. The water was thick. It was a deep brown colour, until the motor of a boat unsettled the bottom and a thick, black sludge rose to the surface. The sight of mouldy vegetables drifting with the current was common. The surface was littered with countless plastic bags, straws and drinking bottles. Sometimes, I’d see a dead, bloated cat float past. The sight of dead fish, bobbing on the surface was never a surprise.
The river was so busy. An endless stream of ferries spewed people onto the wharf, before throwing out streams of black smoke and moving off down the river once more. Most of the boats were ancient ferries, paint peeling and overcrowded. Beside the larger boats were the long boats. These were the longer, narrow boats with a canvas roof offering shelter from the steamy Bangkok heat. The boats carried the locals through the canals- the klongs. They carried the locals to the shops, temples and their work. In the afternoon, the klong boats carried them home again.
Tourists used the long boats to explore the narrow klongs running off the Mekong. After negotiations of payment, the driver would start his engine, navigate his way across the busy Mekong and pull into one of the canals. The first time I sat on a long boat, I held onto the side of the boat and closed my mouth tightly in a desperate attempt to stop the Mekong from splashing into my mouth.
The first thing I noticed was the poverty. The extreme poverty. The houses were made from scraps of timber and scavenged pieces of tin. The poorest of the houses were built under the bridges. These houses didn’t require a roof. Klong houses were built on stilts that rose shakily from the muddy depths of the canal. Each time a boat moved passed the houses, they rocked gently as the wash hit the stilts. Open windows invited in the stench of the putrid river. Doors opened out to the water, lapping on the front step.
As I looked closer, I started to really see the houses. Each one had the King’s yellow flag and the Thai National flag. The flags were flapping gently in the river breeze. Every home had a big potted plant at the doorstep. Colourful flowers spilled out from the pot, welcoming home the family.
And then... I noticed the boys. The klong boys. These boys were diving, splashing, leaping and jumping into the river. The water glistened off their wet, brown skin. Their shaved heads sparkled as the water was shaken from their very short hair. They laughed and played. And they smiled. These boys had smiles that were so wide they bounced from the sides of the canals and into my long boat. Their smiles lit up my world.
On seeing a foreigner in their canal, they would yell out “Hello!” and dive back into the water, laughing and teasing each other. I always answered. I always raised my hand and yelled their greeting back at them. They would scream with joy and push each other under the water in excitement. Sometimes, there was a brave boy amongst them. He would cry out “I love you!” before leaping back into the safety of the canal. I would always answer. I would always say that I loved them, too. Those simple words would send the boys into somersaults of joy. Their smiles would widen.
These boys won’t have to worry about how chocolate and wine have added to their waistline, because these boys will probably never eat or drink these pleasures. These boys will never have to worry about whether their clothes match and are appropriate for different occasions... they probably only have a couple of sets of clothes. These boys won’t have to worry about whether their shoes match their clothes, because they probably only have two pairs of shoes.
They won’t have to worry about their car – I doubt they will ever be able to afford one. They will have to worry about work. They will have to worry about where they will live – but these boys will never live in anything like my home.
These boys have so much less than me... and yet, they have so much more.
When I start to worry, I try to think back to the klong boys... the boys who live in houses made from scavenged timber... the boys whose homes shake when a boat drifts past... the boys who sleep above the stench of the Mekong... the boys who were born into families of poverty... the boys with the biggest smiles I have ever seen.
The boys who showed me how to put things into perspective.
