To Teach Yourself

My professor was disappointed. Almost no one had done the required reading. Thus, class couldn’t proceed smoothly.  The professor proceeded to criticize us.  I felt as if the sheer power of my annoyance would launch me straight through the ceiling.  Last week the professor vaguely changed the one-page syllabus. He’d told us that no more readings were required. Apparently, his actual intent was to cancel the readings after this week’s class.  

This was not the only time I’ve experienced this feeling. Since starting studies at Uniwersytet Wroclawski, I’ve often felt frustrated with the instructors’ methods.      

I graduated magna cum laude from USC’s Marshall School of Business as a global scholar. Professors assigned readings there as well. One needed to do them in order to receive a high grade in the course. Class was related to the texts. Not dependent on them.  

The syllabus mediated any dispute. It was a contract between student and professor, often over ten pages in length. The document delineated the exact required readings and the date of the class they were due for.  If the course involved a presentation, the syllabus spelled out its exact expectations.  I’ve studied abroad in Europe before. The same was true.

We also make presentations for the same class in Wroclaw. Mine isn’t on a topic covered in class. The professor’s rubric is less clear.  You’re expected to discover the knowledge yourself.

I had to Google my assignment’s basic concepts.  As I did this, I couldn’t help but think that I’m paying 600-something euro per semester to this university. Google is free.

In Europe, students rarely buy books. Getting the readings involves some use of a photocopier. My faculty in Wroclaw has a ‘copy-point’ where professors leave their texts for students to Xerox. Recently, Polish class mates informed me of its unofficial importance. If a reading isn’t there, it doesn’t merit doing.

But, this rule is arbitrary. One of my professors is from Chisinau. She teaches a course on Russian politics. Her class consists of asking students about the readings.  At times, I feel like I’ve been dragged in front of the Moldovan inquisition. Once, she admonished me for not doing a rare reading in the library. The other students clearly hadn’t either. I told this to the Polish students. They were surprised, but attributed it to the fact that the professor is simply stricter in this course than in others they have with her.

Cultures and universities are intertwined. There exists a tacit code of expectation in both. You have to figure it out as you go along. Even when it’s frustrating for both parties.

Last week I made another presentation. I had trouble finding some readings for the topic.  The professor responded with a flippant email saying that they were listed as ‘paper’ in the syllabus, and were in the library. Before the presentation, I informed her that past readings with this designation were at the copy-point; she apologized. At the end of my presentation, she said that she was impressed with the original conclusions I’d drawn. “My Polish students just explain the information” she said.  

The Polish word for ‘learn’ translates literally as ‘to teach oneself’. This is reflected in the Polish didactic method. But maybe it goes both ways. There is much for each can discover from the other.  I must adjust to learning in the Polish sense, while continuing to transcend the text in my own way. 

The Fourth Toast

I was freezing my ass off.  It was the first day of my two week sojourn through Ukraine. My bus failed to arrive.  Finally, I made my way to the hotel where I habitually stay while in Lwow.   

After an overnight train ride, all I could hope for was a few hours of sleep. My first Rotary presentation wasn’t until the next day. One of my professors assigned me two multi-page research reports, as I would be missing class. Quite annoyed, I started into the first of the reports and finished the next day. Then, I rushed to the Rotary meeting.

My first presentation went well.  At first I was surprised that there was no meal before my presentation. Then I found out why. “After the meeting we usually have a reception” one Rotarian told me. Then came a difficult choice: Vodka or Cognac?

Here I first learned of a Ukrainian tradition: Making toasts. We began by toasting Rotary, then friendship. The third toast was to women. I later heard that women cut men’s ties if the third toast isn’t for them. After that “just some words” are all that’s needed. It’s the exercise of the toast that’s important. “Without toasting its just booze” my Lwow contact informed me.

 A similarly ‘toasted’ Rotarian drove me back to my hotel.  I felt a renewed happiness to be in the moment. It washed away the difficult circumstances of my arrival.

This feeling prevailed through the rest of my trip. My presentation in Alushta was made over more than a few shots of grapa.  Afterwards, a resort owner insisted that I stay at his establishment. It was closed for the summer. The restaurant was opened for me every morning .

I rented a car in Crimea. There, got to feel the exhilaration of Ukrainian driving - passing on curves and barreling down narrow streets. One such avenue led to the famous Liavadia palace. It was a serene experience to walk in the footsteps of Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin.

Later, I met with Yalta’s Rotaract. They saw to it that my car was loaded down with more local wines than the passenger seat could hold. I was beginning to like this country.  

Yet, it’s still marked by it Ruso-communist past. This doesn’t stop at the stereotypical boozing.  In central-eastern Europe, or even Moscow, you must attend an exhibit to see Soviet monuments.  In eastern Ukraine Lenin still greets you in the main square.  

This part of the country is ethnically Russian.  Many don’t agree with communist political beliefs. They view these symbols as monuments of a time when Russia ruled the roost. In Yalta, the younger generation wished that the statues would be removed.  “We are Russian speaking, but I don’t like the Russians who come here” one opined.

 I didn’t get the chance to finish my presentation in Charkow. They stopped me.  Someone poured the vodka. It was the easiest money I’d ever earned.

The express to Kiev traveled at over 160 KPH. That wasn’t why I couldn’t get my bearings. As I made my way to the nation’s capital, I wondered really constituted Ukraine. I’d seen the four corners of the country. Despite a soviet commonality, it felt like I was in different countries for the whole trip.

I was still freezing my ass off as I walked the hills of Kiev. But, this time it was with a new respect of the levity that it entailed. The similar diversity of a nation constructed from its past. 

Out In The Cold

I stepped off the train.  Masses of people waited to greet their arriving family and friends. My host was not among them.  I headed down the stairs to the train station’s main hall. My host was waiting there. His first comment was about my clothing.

 When I left Wroclaw, I put on long pants and brought a sweater along with me. According to my host this was woefully inadequate. Yet, I wasn’t cold. I found the mild chill of the 10 degree weather invigorating.  My host couldn’t believe this. He insisted that I take a spare coat when we arrived at his car.

We arrived at his apartment. He commented on my manner of dress. “You are wearing summer pants and shoes” he admonished.   I was raised in southern California. I’d never heard of clothes being designated for summer or winter.  He informed me about the differences. Apparently, winter clothes have thicker materials.

After a quick dinner, I met with younger representatives from the organization which gave me my scholarship.  Some of them were exchange students.  Others were Polish.  Overcoats were an absolute necessity. When one student forgot her gloves it was a major crisis.  I only had a sweater.  Over the course of the evening, many asked me if I was cold. They seemed not to believe when I told them I was not.

I returned to my hosts’ flat.  We discussed the cold over Lithuanian vodka. Speaking Polish, my host and his wife insisted that they help me buy some winter clothes. I told them that I had warmer clothing. It just wasn’t cold enough to use it.  They also didn’t believe me. How could anyone want to subject themselves to any lack of heat?

Whatever climate you are raised in determines your attitude toward winter.  In warmer ones heat is the enemy. Upon entering any building you immediately feel a blast of cold air. The opposite is true in cooler regions. The heat is stifling. I felt like I was in a desert when in my hosts’ apartment.

My host gave me a sweater when I left Lodz. He insisted that I could not possibly be warm enough. I boarded the train; blast of heat hit me. I was down to a t-shirt within five minutes.

 I haven’t turned on the radiators in my own flat. The heating began on about a month ago at my university.

 I was on my way to class last week. Two of my fellow students met me as I entered the campus. One was from Brazil. The other was from Canada. The Brazilian and I weren’t wearing coats.  The Canadian was shocked that we could survive the weather.

We crossed into a building and the heat hit us.  By the time we’d reached the classroom we’d started to complain. “I’m going to die in this country” My Brazilian counterpart said “November in Poland and I’m sweating!” The Canadian had no problems.

Many claim to be acclimatized to the region where they live.  This is true. But, not in the way people think. The temperature you were formed in makes you more critical of its existence. More tolerant of it’s opposite.  

On Transition

President Gorbachev is remembered negatively by many in Russia. Some are nostalgic for the Soviet era. They view him as the destroyer of the USSR.

The western world lauded Russia’s conversion to capitalism. From their perspective, it was the correct thing to do.

Russia suffered since the fall of communism. The resulting decline in living standards and life expectancy is so great that it’s sometimes referred to it as the ‘Russian Genocide’. The military was once the gallant protector of the USSR. It’s fallen from grace. Underfunded, it’s unable to pay its utility bills.  Some Russians view the Red Army’s withdraw from central-eastern Europe as forced capitulation to the West.   

 The nations that army vacated have prospered.

 Before martial law’s declaration in Poland, there were rumors of Soviet tanks massing for attack. After finally throwing off communism the country forged ahead. The same is true of other satellite nations, such as Czech Republic and Slovakia. The Baltic States have found their footing. Russia continues to flounder.

Last week I became a Slovenian citizen.  I took an oath, swearing to up hold my new home land’s democratic values. After the ceremony my lawyer, translator, and I discussed the region’s history.

Slovenia used to be part of Yugoslavia. It was a member of the nonaligned Marxist faction.  Slovenia was Yugoslavia’s economic powerhouse. The most of what they produced went to Serbia.

We also discussed Russian politics.  My lawyer and translator acknowledged Russians’ antipathy toward Gorbachev. They seemed dumbfounded by it. Gorbachev maintains that he did not set out to destroy the USSR. They are grateful he did.  

 I’ve traveled to Slovenia three times. It‘s one of the most developed transition nations. On this visit I felt as if I was in the West. The locals spoke a Slavic language.

 Putin professes a desire to redress Russia’s degradation since the fall of communism. Giving a people hope isn’t negative.  Leading them to stagnation is.

Russia must modernize in order to survive.  It must accept the West, while retaining the essence of its own heritage.

Many Russians regard Gorbachev as an enemy.  His policies shaped the future. The obliteration of one empire spawns the beginning of another.  

Let the Russian people embrace the world. Let them build their own destiny with the territories they inhabit.  Let them prosper -- looking towards the future while uniting behind the past.

Let them find truth in their story. As I attempt to find truth in my own.  

Keeping Roza

I thought a great deal about going to Pakistan during Ramazan. I didn’t know if I could go without food or water for 14 hours every day. Then it occurred to me that I’d already done so two days a week over the past year.

 When I started commuting to USC, the only way to make it logistically viable was to schedule my classes on two days. During those days I scarcely had time to eat, drink, or even go to the bathroom.  Those days often lasted about 14 hours. I found a way to get through it.

If I could handle USC, I could handle Ramazan.  

I came to Karachi assuming that I’d be fasting daily.  It was surprising to learn that half of my host’s family doesn’t fast. In fact, they told me that I would be expected to gain weight during my time with them.

There is a law in Pakistan forbidding eating and drinking in public during Ramazan.  It’s another story behind closed doors. Among those I met, the decision to ‘keep Roza’, or fast, is regarded as a personal choice.

One of my host’s family’s relatives met me when I arrived in Lahore.  I’d taken refreshment on the flight there. Travelers are exempt from the fast, and PIA (the Pakistani national carrier) honors this. Once I arrived, I found that my local host was keeping Roza.  He graciously offered me the opportunity to have some water in the 40 degree heat.  “No. Thank you” I told him. “Your culture doesn’t change just because I’m here”.  

A couple of days later I returned to Karachi.  My host decided that it would be good for me to experience Roza at least once during my time in the country.

I was awoken at about 4:00 on my last day in Pakistan. I took part in Seri, the beginning of the fast. Afterward my host told me that I should still drink water as I was not Pakistani. Therefore, I must not be used to fasting.  I declined. It was pointless to not have the whole experience.

My host’s sentiment was repeated many times through the day.  More than a few people asked if my fast was getting difficult. This was the first time they’d seen a westerner fast; they were curious. Almost as if they doubted that one could endure the experience.

But, there was also admiration. On the ride to Iftari at the Karachi Boat Club my host’s daughter enquired as to the condition of my fast. I told her I was fine.  Our driver also understood. ”Roza?” he asked inquisitively. I nodded and he gave an enthusiastic ‘thumbs up’.     

At first, I thought the experience would be little different than going to college.  After a full day of classes I’d come home, shove the dogs aside, and throw a pizza in the oven.  I usually didn’t respond to questions until I’d downed a triple vodka.  During Ramazan you have to be nice.

Keeping Roza doesn’t simply refer to abstaining from food.  Succumbing to violence, vulgarity or even general crankiness is regarded as violating the fast. As my Host’s daughter put it: “Fasting is not furious”.

The Iftari at the Boat Club was more civilized then my own ritual. It was fitting that it was my last experience on this trip to Pakistan. I reluctantly headed for the airport.  In a small way I felt closer to a people I’d come to know only two weeks before.

I’d gone without food before. In Pakistan I learned the meaning of fasting.  

An Instructive Journey

 One of my classes this semester is about Russian politics. This includes the brake-up of the USSR.  The professor is Moldovan. Last week she questioned the wisdom of Gorbachev’s policies, which led to the sudden brake up of the Soviet Union.  She opined that his attempt to reform the political and economic systems of the country toward democratic capitalism, while retaining the basics of communism, was untenable. It caused economic and social hardship.  

After the collapse of the country, the right to vote was a small condolence to its people. With the exception of the Baltic States, they’d never fought for democratic freedom. They had no idea of its significance. “The Baltic States are the only ones that more or less function properly” my professor added.

Last weekend I returned to the former USSR.  I went to Lwow in western Ukraine to speak at a Rotary seminar. Before World War II it used to be a Polish city. But, the cultural differences were like a slap in the face.

 I tried to buy an opera ticket for a performance the following day. I asked if I could have a ticket to ‘Il Travatore’ and was simply told “no”. I inquired as to whether this was because it was sold out.  “Today there are no tickets”.  I finally specified the next day and got a ticket.

At the Rotary Seminar, I met a man of Ukrainian decent.  Raised in the U.S., he returned to his homeland. He reminded me that Poland was never in the Soviet Union.  Here people lived under the auspices of the KGB. You learned not to volunteer any information that wasn’t absolutely necessary.     

He also commented on the level of service in Ukrainian hotels, pointing to employees ironing tablecloths in the middle of the hotel’s restaurant. “And they have the nerve to call this a four star hotel?” he asked jokingly.

I came to the conference with hope that I would get invited to present in Poland. I got about five invitations. They were all from Ukrainians. The Poles seemed uninterested.  Ukraine and the rest of the former USSR must travel a difficult path to transition. Ukraine’s GDP has fallen by over 50% since the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Russian life expectancy is plummeting.  Yet, the enthusiasm is clearly there.

I left the seminar and headed for the opera house.  Along the way I saw older women in babuszki selling produce along the side of the road. Some claim that this part of the world has no entrepreneurial spirit. They are wrong.

The opera had some technical difficulties.  The chorus didn’t sing in unison, the orchestra overpowered the singers and some leads couldn’t control their vibrato. Despite its Hapsburg era opera house, Lwow is a relatively provincial Ukrainian city. Anyone with more talent could be hired away to Kiev or the E.U.

Russian public opinion polls show that many think the best times during the 20^th century were during the Brezhnev era. Employment and housing were guaranteed, and the price of goods was less than the cost of production. The problem was that it wasn’t sustainable.

Maybe the opera in Lwow might have been better during communist times. But that ticket would have been bought at the expense of the future.  

Gorbachev may have gone too far too fast, but the transition had to happen.  The USSR eventually had to face reality.

I look at the debt amassed by the U.S. and some European countries. The prevailing ‘tax and spend’ mentality. They must learn from history. They must make tough decisions. 

Required Reading

 In the past few weeks, many of my recent posts were about the attempt to find personal identity after being exposed to many cultures. I chalked my perspectives up to my own upbringing. I also considered the importance of each observer’s perspective in determining where each person is ‘from’.

Today, I started into my required university texts. I hit upon a theory of globalization that explains a lot. (Yes, I actually got excited by required course reading.)

Globalization “is visible in the emergence of a new economic class…whose members are separated from their fellow citizens by barriers of language, knowledge, wealth and tastes and to whom they may be physically proximate but psychologically remote.”

My cousin, uncle and grandmother live three miles from my parent’s home.  Ever since I was young I thought nothing of traveling the world. When America’s graduate school system wasn’t to my liking I imediately  looked abroad. My parents are both university graduates. My uncle never attended college.

About a year ago, I suggested that my uncle come visit me in Thailand. He informed me that he’d have to get a passport. I blanched involuntarily. I’ve held a passport since long before I had a driver’s license.  It never occurred to me that someone could lack such a basic document.   50-something years old and my uncle had never left the country.

In actuality less than 30% of Americans hold passports. Some of them are naturalized citizens.  

My little cousin says she never wants to leave the U.S. Believing that nothing could be better than the American way of life. But that lifestyle, and the quality of living in many other countries, has been bolstered by the power of trade.  She insists that she has no desire to learn a foreign language. I am proficient in two.   

The article also notes the association of this societal class with transnational corporations. My father worked with many of them as a mid and upper level manager during my upbringing. When I was about 13 my family was almost transferred to Switzerland. My Mother took many international assignments as a reporter. She currently runs an international media consulting company.

When I first wrote about South Hills, I attributed its difference from mainstream America to its existence as a subculture within LA. That may not be the whole story. I may be a member of this “new economic class” without realizing it. A member of a community comprised of successful, international families. Separated from the surrounding area by differences in language, ideology, wealth, and worldview. But, not so far removed as to be completely isolated from the surrounding local culture. 

Others claim that globalization leads to the erosion of local traditions. It enriches them. Born In America I had the curiosity to interpret Chinese proverbs. However, I find different meaning in them than a resident of mainland China. That native would doubtless have a different reading of an American film than its creators intended. Globalization is not simply American cultural imperialism.       

Other collage interns were employed at the NGO I worked with in Thailand. My closest friends were the 13 year old son of prominent Thai businessman and the 16 year old daughter of an international manager from Standard Chartered Bank. I attributed the age difference to my young colleges’ maturity at the time. Now I wonder if it was because we are from similar backgrounds. Based in nation-states. Citizens of the world.

In the current economic climate, some question the wisdom of globalization.  It’s a process that is beneficial to all concerned. Weather they realize it or not.

 As a product of this process I appreciate the importance of adaptation. The right to mold your own future.  To go where conditions are best. Despite those who are unaware of the possibilities.         

Culture, Time, and Democracy

A few months ago, my family thought about taking our annual vacation in Tunisia. Then some idiot posted a video on Youtube.  Those plans went out the window.

 My honors thesis dealt with how communist dictatorial policy influences economic transition in central-eastern Europe. While writing the paper, Tunisia and Egypt revolted - the beginning of the so called ‘Arab spring’. It occurred to me that the policies of dictators in those countries could influence the future in a similar manner.

I mentioned this in the paper. Accounting for the differences in religious organizations and social media the situation might not be so different.

But, those two changes make all the difference.  In Poland, the Catholic Church fomented the Solidarność movement during martial law.  All religion was outlawed in Albania. The economy continues to flounder there. The absence of social media made opposition harder to form.  Instead people rallied around figureheads. They could lead a country through the beginnings of transition.

One of the students in my program is from Tunisia. We had the opportunity to discuss the current situation in her country. She told me that since the revolution the Islamist party gained power in Parliament. They were the only party with any vision after Tunisia’s Arab Spring.  In Egypt, Islamic factions also figure prominently in elections.

A Democracy is ruled by the will of its electorate. Religious institutions played a positive role in giving the people a voice during some post-communist transitions. In northern Africa, the opposite seems to be the case.  

My Tunisian colleague described the current atmosphere in her country as uncertain.  With the increasing power of fundamentalists, many are looking abroad.

“The revolution left us with hope. But they have done nothing” she said.

 Both regions successfully overthrew brutal regimes . In Eastern Europe, religion allowed some nations come together and rise up.

In North Africa, the internet organized the rebellion. Religious fundamentalists are all that remains to offer a way forward. I worked in Maldives during its first democratic election. The opposition won.  Since then, I’ve heard the same to be true.

I’m not saying that the Muslim world can’t achieve democracy.  Many Americans are quick to criticize the Arab World for its politics. They forget that it took the United States over a century, two constitutions and a civil war to create a stable republic.

In Poland, democratic policy making arguably existed since the middle ages. It may have allowed them to throw off three centuries of partitioning, war, and communism so quickly.

Just because a country has moved toward democracy does not mean it will become a utopia. It's  a process. One that takes hundreds of years.

I hope that those in all parts of the world will keep this in mind. Especially me. 

Somewhere

“Everyone’s from somewhere”. Most speakers of English know this expression. I do not doubt this cliché’s intuitive veracity. However, I wonder where that somewhere is.

I spent last Tuesday in Wrocław’s main square, talking with a young woman. She was born of the first emigration from Poland to Germany, shortly after the fall of the Iron Curtain. She told me that she feels more a part of her heritage in Germany than she does in Poland. While proud, she said that she practically dreads mentioning her Polish heritage in Germany. Afraid she will become an object of ridicule. In Poland it’s a different story.

We both went to the same summer immersion program in Kraków.  There, she befriended one of the program’s leaders.  One evening he told her that, as far as he was concerned, she was German.  “I felt hurt when he said that” she told me.

Even as the third generation descendant of Poles who emigrated to America I could empathize with this sentiment. I grew up in a majority Chinese community. To my friends, I was always the Polish one.  They or their parents were from China, or Taiwan. Everyone had to be from somewhere.  Myself included.

In Poland, the same is true. Everyone is from somewhere. But, the perceptions are different.  In California, I might as well be from Poland. In Poland, I am ‘the American’.

After class, the professor, a couple of my first-generation friends and I got into a discussion. They told the teacher of their own dual life. Then she jokingly asked me:  “Of course, you feel as an American.”

My parents raised me to be international. I never really learned to play American football. Yet, from ten years old the highlights of my life were trips abroad. Though I come from a country where relatively few have a passport, I made a life abroad my goal. I settled on Poland as the place where I’d like to build that life.  

In graduate school, I was the only student  to place at the highest level of the Polish course who did not speak  the language at home. I’d be hard pressed to say that I’m a main stream American. I’d never say that I’m completely a Pole either.  

I tried to explain it. Telling my professor where I’d grown up. Telling her that everyone is from somewhere there. Generations removed; I didn’t know where I belonged.  

“But you feel as an American, True?”

 A couple of years ago my parents told me the story of the lupe garue.  The pet of a  man who decided  his dog was too bad for heaven and too good for hell. It was doomed to walk the night as a ghost.

“We’ve raised a lupe garue” my father told me one morning.

I didn’t know how to answer my professor. Even though I knew what she wanted to hear. Everyone is from somewhere.  But that somewhere is differs according to every person we ask.

I could chalk it up to a matter of perspective. I could let it all go as a matter of national pride. All of that seems in adequate.

 A birth certificate might make one have nationality. But from where does that person truly come?

 For my own part it's still a question I struggle to answer.   

City on a Hill

My friends say I live in a cat house. This isn’t because it’s in a slum. Cats like to be up high; its the two story living room you can look down on the activity.

Fog shrouds the valley

My family moved to the Walnut-South Hills area 5 ½ years ago. I spent many of my teenage years and early adulthood in this Asian suburb of Los Angeles. I’ve written about cultural experiences around the world. It seems only fair that I reflect on my own community.  

Every morning, from high school onwards, the first thing I’d do was open the shutters on one of my bedroom windows. Los Angeles expanded before me.  From the hills on which our house sat, it stretched through flats of tract housing towards distant freeways. The Sierra Nevada rose from the field below.

In many ways, the place I lived wasn’t anything like LA. It’s a mix of bareness and bounty. Paying an extra dollar for a premium blend at a pricy tea shop is a big decision. Many of my friends and I have traveled internationally, but never have been to Beverly Hills. This dichotomy of wealth and frugality can be shocking. It’s not uncommon to see a local washing his Mercedes in the driveway while gardeners mow a front lawn. We eat in crowded strip shopping center Korean restaurants for the best deals. We could easily go further afield.

And eventually we have to. The verity seen in more urban parts of LA isn’t available here. For culture, western food, and even education one must descend from the hills.  I got my undergraduate degree from USC in down town LA. Upon arrival, the culture I saw was different. Completely concerned with popular whims, it lacked the detachment I’d come to appreciate in my hilltop community.  I elected to remain in South Hills while studying at USC. 

One morning, I awoke, opened my shutters and looked down. Sunlight reflected off the cap of fog that settled over the LA basin.  Only the hills and mountains remained. I felt pride in having chosen to remain.

But my generation can’t remain forever.  A suburb isn’t the best place to launch a career.  Almost everyone in my closest group of friends is moving this month. One is possibly going to Britain, one to Germany, and one to that ‘other country’ called UCLA.

The field in Psie Pole

 I recently got on a plane, headed for Poland and graduate school. My route took me through Germany, the first European country I visited.   I boarded my trans-Atlantic flight in the first class cabin. One of its passengers was a 10-year old boy. He was likely on his first trip to Europe. I trudged into economy as he  played excitedly with his seat controls. That boy used to be me.  

The name of my Wroclaw neighborhood translates as Dog Field. It is also on the outskirts of the city. It’s flat as the name suggests. But, I’m still up high.  I stand on the balcony of my 4^th floor apartment as the sun sets. A field still expands before me. Light reflects on its trees, stretching toward distant houses.  A blok rises from the meadow below.

 I’d like to think that these similarities are encouraging.  A sign that the life we’ve known still exists. That we will always carry it with us. No matter where we are.

Barriers to Entry

I’d heard of the upscale Karachi neighborhood where I would be staying. So, I was a bit surprised when my host pulled up at the airport in a small red Daihatsu. Next morning, one of my host’s relatives took me to a tailor shop. She lived only a few blocks away. Like my host family, she had a private driver. I found it incongruous to see her seated in the back of a Toyota Corolla as if chauffeured around in a limousine.

But in Karachi her car is a limo. Cars that American high school students commonly drive are often high end in Pakistan. Luxury models are few and far between.

I heard two explanations for this. Both involve a 200% tax on automobiles. Some told me the proceeds go to corrupt politicians. My host took a different view of the tax. It’s not just unwise to flaunt your wealth in Pakistan. In Islamic culture it can also be considered gauche. Conspicuous consumption can be a sign that a person is exploiting others instead of observing pious charity. The tax serves to reinforce charitable behavior in his opinion. Still, I wonder what brand of car Zardari chooses for transportation.

Whatever its end purpose, the tax reveals the prevailing force that barriers to entry play in Pakistani society. Buildings and opportunities lay behind walls of concrete and trust. Passage never comes easily. Entrance rarely proceeds without effort.

 Perhaps this aspect of Pakistan is best symbolized by its doors. Americans scarcely notice when transparent door panels slide open, automatically allowing them into a local supermarket. In Pakistan, the difficulty in crossing any threshold is normal, but significant to all involved.

 At every installation, from Sindh Police headquarters to my host’s home, we’d stop at the front gate. A bolt would be pulled back; the doors opened to us. We’d seamlessly enter as those doors again shut to the outside.

The servants who perform the labor remain on the threshold, able to peer through the doorway. They know they will never be insiders.

I’ll never forget the Desi (local Pakitstani) proud reaction to automated sliding doors. When a journalist took me to see her husband’s IT company she highly praised the lobby doors. Her husband opened a steel grate, allowing us into the building. We climbed a flight of stairs and arrived at the company’s entrance hall. A pair of glass panels parted. We crossed the final few feet into the office. My host’s children pointed out similar doors when we went to Dalman Mall, Karachi’s most upscale shopping center. The doors opened as I effortlessly walked into the mall.  On the other side of the threshold a security checkpoint awaited.

I didn’t understand this pride in automated doors at the time.  I saw only the barriers to entry which surrounded them. My hosts’ viewed it differently. The doors created a path forward where previously only an obstacle existed.

 In the western world, we cross between buildings, cities and even countries without even realizing it. Pakistan’s inhabitants must struggle to break past the barriers which surround them in daily life. Maybe the presence of sliding doors in Karachi is the first step toward their future.  A sign that obstacles can be broken down with time. I hope that Pakistanis continue to take pride the advances they have made.  And in the progress that is yet to come.

A Case of Two Schools

Oars sliced through the water near Karachi’s main port.  The rowers worked in unison, pushing their shells toward construction cranes that towered over the mangroves. I sat on the Karachi Boat Club’s pier watching my host’s children and their friends practice competitive rowing. Most of them attend the same private school.  I stared towards the Arabian Sea, reminded of a different group of high school students. They’re also located near the sea. But, their school places them at a disadvantage.

This summer, I interned with the Population and Community Development Association.  I visited their 10^th grade Mechai Bamboo School (MBS) for disadvantaged children. It was part of an idyllic resort in Pattaya.

My responsibilities also took me to the school’s main campus in Buriram. While there, I learned how the organization promotes the school. They claim it is a great improvement from similar government institutions.  It's described as a center of "lifelong learning" that imparts English ability and micro-business skills.  The Bamboo School boosts of its well rounded curriculum, developed by teachers and students.

I didn’t have much opportunity to talk with the students in Buriram. That was not the case in Karachi. My host’s daughter was class president at Karachi’s private Center for Advanced Studies. The school exhibits a marked improvement over government educational centers. Students are schooled in English and Urdu. The curriculum prepares students for acceptance to international universities while teaching them respect for local culture and religion. Students, with faculty oversight, manage discipline among themselves.  

At first glance, the schools’ methods seem similar. Except for one major thing.  The Thai school provides meaningful education to the needy. The Pakistani school reserves it for those who can pay.

Teaching students to not rely on hand-outs? 

But MBS does require a form of pay. It’s just not the kind that can fund its operating costs. Students’ families must plant trees in order to pay the school’s “tuition.”  The organization promotes that children perform one hour of community service in the School Lunch Garden to receive a meal. This is ostensibly so students will learn to value work instead of relying on hand-outs.  After all, there’s no such thing as a free lunch at the bamboo school, right?

Wrong.

Anyone who visits the school for more than a short time notices the deficit between promotional literature and reality. A donation box for the students’ lunch sits at the entrance where parents pick up their students. The students receive some level of “free” lunch through donations. The Bamboo School advertises that it closes during “rice planting season.” In fact, the school only closes for two days with little rice planting involved.

The landscaped entrance to MBS

 I saw students in class exactly once during my entire two-month internship. Assemblies in honor of visiting sponsors seemed much more common. When I inquired as to the students’ course load, PDA employees discreetly told me that donor visits necessitate a sparse class schedule.  According to an English Teacher, the pupils’ English levels are actually no higher than in average government schools. Contrary to what is claimed in the brochures, student participation in curriculum development is non-existent.

Back in Karachi, the Center for Advanced Studies seemed to deliver on its promises. It’s easy to see why:  CAS requires monetary tuition. This frees it from the need to put sponsors first. Most Pakistani families cannot afford the price of attendance. However, the value of granting some few a quality education benefits a country far more than professing to provide it to many.

Still, those who cannot pay have few options. Government schools are often sub-standard, especially in the developing world. Pakistanis, who place a high value on community service, have started NGOs of their own to provide alternative schools for the poor. But, they also require donations from sponsors.

 Organized religion sometimes offers a solution. My Pakistani host is a successful businessman. He was educated in a Catholic school.  In Lahore I met some students from a local mosque. They were quite friendly and seemed knowledgeable about local history.  The students’ English was far better than any I’d encountered from their older MBS counterparts in Thailand.

Radical mosque near Jinnah's Tomb

Yet, such religious education also carries risk, especially in Pakistan. On a visit to Jinnah’s tomb, my host pointed to a minaret about one block from the Quaid-e-Azam’s resting place. “This is a very controversial mosque,” he told me. He went on to explain that most of its students go on to join the Taliban.

Rowing at the boat club was over. Our driver navigated Karachi’s gridlock; we arrived safely home. It occurred to me that the value of any service is equal to its outcome. A high quality education affords its recipient an opportunity. But, it is up to that person to take advantage. It makes no economic sense to expect something from nothing. Charity isn’t always the answer.  

Karachi Unfolds

Two weeks ago, I returned from Pakistan. It was the most enthralling locale I visited this summer.   Yet,  I have delayed  putting my experiences into words . So much went on during those ten days.
The last time I wrote about Pakistan I wondered which aspect of Karachi  I would see.  I guess that is the best place to start.
I stayed with a family in the city's Defense Housing Authority.   Upon arriving at their home I felt as if I could be a version Los Angeles with more servants.   Then I took first trip from my hosts' walled compound.  We went to the tomb of the country's founder, Jinnah. As we drove through  Ramazan traffic I redefined my idea of bad congestion. Cars stopped as peddlers allowed their monkeys  to entertain  grid locked commuters.  Karachi became a completely new world as we headed back to Defense.
Later, I experienced other elements of my hosts' Karachi: rowing at the exclusive Karachi Boat Club; organic and Mediterranean  restaurants.  From the  journalist who explained some Pakistani cultural mindsets , to the student who provided insight into Karachi'ite university life, to my host famly's children who highlighted practical details of life in the city.  I gradually came to get my bearings in this immense metropolis.   
 Defense is clearly influenced by the west. But, I also got a feeling for the neighborhood's more traditional side.  It pays to stay inconspicuous in Pakistan. One night I stayed up through the morning at a local tea house. Members of Pakistani political families lamented the situation of their country. But, I also could hear their pride at being Desi. It was encouraging to be surrounded by such awareness of the present and  hope for the future at the same time.  
 During some trips through the city my hosts strongly suggested  I sit in the back of the car.  These parts were not safe for foreigners.  I took lunch with a family in one of these  neighborhoods  as an honored guest.  I didn't feel  unsafe.  A bomb recently went off in the vicinity.
It would not have been prudent  for me to see some of Karachi's lower strata. But, the same is true in my home city of LA.  I am taken by how similar the two cities turned out to be in some ways .
Maybe  the Karachi I experienced was already pre-determined.  The world you are born into determines the world you  come to know. If this is true, then the city I saw  is  indeed 'my' Karachi.
 Still, I still feel as if I've only scratched the surface.  I look  forward to expanding my perception of Karachi and Pakistan in the future. As I continue my travels, I will not forget  the nation I've experienced. The faces and reality of a people.

The Little Things

I sat on the bus, bound for Bangkok after a weekend getaway. My clothes were spattered with blood. As I often do while traveling, I read to pass the time. The novel was called ‘The Cellist of Sarajevo’. One of its main characters is a sniper whose life depends on noticing “The small things that are not small things”.  I found this ironic, in some small way. That one quote from a book about the Bosnian conflict could so accurately describe the tropical island of Koh Samet -- and how I’d gotten to this point.  

In the south

Many people know that I’m a big picture person. When I arrived at the island’s pier that is what I took in: expansive beaches and crystal water. As the pick-up truck taxi bounced over speed bumps, I noticed verdant hills rising from the shore line. After lunch I decided to see more of the island.

As is common on the Koh Samet I rented a motorbike. One of the most glaring challenges I’d expected was driving on the British side of the road. But, I put my mind to it and it was second nature in no time. I headed for the south; the most beautiful part of Koh Samet. Most of the roads on this part of the island are far from paved. At times I was  amazed to be driving over such rough terrain in, essentially, a Vespa. Still, it was fun and the views were breathtaking. The parts of this afternoon came together to form a cohesive whole.  After weeks of close quarters and grueling schedules at my organization’s field projects this was just what I needed. I resolved to return to the southern tip of the island to relax the next morning.

 A Southern Koh Samet Freeway

After returning to our north-end resort I had dinner with the other interns. For the first time in a while I felt like I had energy. I set out again the next morning, low on gas from yesterday. After looking around, I saw that many local families were selling bottles. I stopped at the first place I saw.  My bike's tank full, I hit the gas and took in grandeurous beauty that is Koh Samet. I felt unstoppable.

Too unstoppable, in fact.  I’d failed to notice the little things - such as the speed bump advancing towards me at 50 KPH. At the last moment it became a somewhat important detail. I slammed on the breaks; the bike stopped. I, however, kept moving until my face was inconveniently stopped by the pavement.

A good Samaritan put me back on my motorbike and told me to go to the clinic. With blood streaming from my nose and multiple abrasions, I again hit the gas.  It turned out the clinic was closed on Sundays. I returned to the resort and cleaned up. Then I set out again. I was intent on reaching the island’s southern shore and wasn’t about to let a little thing like blunt force cranial trauma stop me.

Land's End

I reached my goal. Though I only stayed about 30 minutes once I got there. It was well worth it. I was the last of my group to leave the island that day. The small details of my time there formed a larger experience that I did not want to end.

 I sat on the bus physically beat up, but mentally rejuvenated. I’d likely have a scar, but that was ok. It’s just another detail, a reminder that the smallest things can tell a story. That big picture of a weekend, or a life, is informed by its events. By the little things that are not little.      

Just So You Know

Earlier this week my university’s international studies coordinator emailed the people on my internship program. Many had failed to turn in their mandatory reports, including the other USC intern at my organization. My coordinator was annoyed; he made this abundantly clear in the email.

He also seemed to think that some interns were not taking enough cultural risks. The other intern was rather peeved that the email was so direct. But, it made me examine my own behavior.

Instead of simply parting as I could anywhere else, I pride myself on getting to know where I travel.  My coordinator urged students to lose themselves in a neighborhood and discover as its streets unfold. I did that two weekends ago.

Actually, I got a bit more lost than I’d have liked. I stupidly assumed that I could walk from Bangkok’s Silom district to the Grand Palace. I got hopelessly lost. However, along the way I saw discovered a new side of Bangkok. On winding streets near the river I meandered past old wooden households in front of open canals. This was the essence of the city before the development of the late 20^th century. Five hours later, I arrived at the royal residence too tired to see the Emerald Buddha temple. But that was ok. I’d already seen many local temples. My USC counterparts had not.

My coordinator also opined that you have not truly seen a country until you’ve been invited to a native’s home. Incidentally, I was. After teaching English at Huay Sala School, the English teacher took us to dinner. He told us that he would be happy to have us as guests in his home amid the rice paddies. He also gave us his contact information. Unfortunately, I did not have time to follow up.

Still, I wondered if I’d gotten out of my comfort zone. I only saw so much on my walk because I was suspicious of taking a taxi. This isn’t because I’ve heard horrible stories about Bangkok cabbies. Eastern European drivers would rip a foreigner off. I’ve stayed at friends’ apartments in the region as well.

I haven’t taken a hired motorbike, eaten street food, or made much of an effort to learn the language. The last is odd. I usually pick up languages quickly. Thai is one of the harder tongues I’ve encountered. But, I can’t help but wonder if there’s something else at work. I’ve been to over 40 countries. Maybe, I’m starting to view myself like the children at some schools my organization sponsors view me:

‘Here one day; gone the next. Why is it worth the effort’?

 That doesn’t mean I’ll stop traveling. It’s good to get a wakeup call every once in a while. My coordinator’s email may have annoyed some others. For me it was a reminder: Never be too set in your ways. Never become too jaded.  

From Head to Toe

I travel a lot. Obviously, this means I have to adapt to different cultures. I’d like to think I’ve gotten rather good at this. However, Thailand has presented more of a challenge than many other countries.

Most of the differences are simply amusing. They remind me of why I travel. Only in south-east Asia would you see signs telling metro passengers to give up their seats to Buddhist monks.  At times, it can be almost surreal to see warnings that forbid durian in the subways (complete with picture of the fruit and superimposed red X) right next to signs which causally say no smoking.

Other differences are more serious -- and more problematic. Thai Buddhism places importance on covering your legs.  From my outsiders perspective, having to wear long pants in 30 degree heat while up-country sometimes seems impractical. Still, I’m sure there’s a reason why traditional Buddhists believe it’s important. Members of many university groups we accompany wear short pants. The villagers do not seem offended.  Acquaintances told me that the average Thai won’t get up-set if someone breaks a taboo; especially if the offender is a westerner who is unlikely to be aware of its existence.

Still, it pays to be as culturally sensitive as one can. In my experience, Thai culture does demand strict adherence to traditional norms in certain situations. In Bangkok, no one really cares what kind of pants people ware.  Yet, on my first attempt to visit the Grand Palace I was turned way for wearing shorts. I returned the next day in proper attire. I stood in the rear of the stunning Emerald Buddha temple, not wanting to risk showing my feet to the altar while sitting. In return, a guard yelled at me in Thai.

  He may have taken issue with the physical location of my head.  This aspect of Thai culture has given me some trouble before.  On one sponsor visit, I attended a student presentation in a local school library. The visitors sit cross-legged on the floor while the students present. I’ve hated sitting on the floor ever since kindergarten. This was the second time I’d seen the presentation, and I was tired. So, I sat on a couch in the corner. My supervisor’s boss came over and physically pushed me onto the floor. A Thai-American intern later explained that this was because my head was much higher than those of the sponsors and high-ranking school administrators. This is considered disrespectful in Thailand.  I’m still trying to understand this concept.  After all, the students were standing. Their heads were higher than mine!   

Up-Country

I was happy to return to Ban Huay Sala School.  We were with the 17-year-old son of a Korean donor, who wanted to show the students how to make kimchi and take pictures. Kuhn San Hun, the school's  head English, teacher told us that he wanted us to give an encore English lesson. I agreed, but knew it might be hard.

I’d asked to go up country again to observe teacher trainings. No such trainings materialized as my departure date arrived. As we set up our lesson plans the next day, my supervisor announced that I was to attend a training at another school.  

 As I said goodbye to the students, they seemed happy that the other interns would remain, but were disappointed at my departure. Surprisingly, so was I. I’d only spent a few days teaching here. It was the closest I’d come to making an impact.

 I boarded the van, watched the fields roll by and  thought about letting the students know they could come visit me when they got a bit older. Then I thought better of it. When I was around 14 I went skiing in British Columbia, and took tropical vacations in the BVI.  It occurred to me that most of them would probably never leave Thailand. Its  improbable that people from such different cultural, linguistic and socio-economic backgrounds could make any kind of connection. I’d like to think we did.

I only stayed at the teacher training about 45 minutes. Obviously, the training was in Thai; no one was sent with me to translate.

 The local English instructor  gave me and a visiting American teacher a ride back.  He told us that our visits to schools do work in that they really make the children want to learn English. The visiting teacher said she’d been told to teach English by my organization, as the local teacher watched best practices. The only problem that she happened to be a literature teacher!  “I don’t know what they’re thinking” she said.  “Frankly, I think it’s insulting to the teachers and the children.”

 It’s better than nothing. Although both English teachers I saw on this trip speak well, others can’t even hold a basic conversation. The question still remains: Why wern't we sent to a school were the faculty’s English level is a problem?

I did teach English the next day. The students were happy to see me. But, they seemed a bit jaded. In the month after my organization’s program started they’d seen a virtual parade of westerners tour their school. In older projects, the students practically ignore our continued visits.

 Later that day, a younger intern was trying to figure out what benefit learning photography could be to the villagers. I had to break the news to him. “He’s the son of the village’s sponsors” I informed him. “The benefit is his family’s continued sponsorship”.

 We attended a tree planting the next day. Villagers receive 40 baht (about 60  U.S. cents) per tree toward capital in their micro-credit bank. We bounced over dirt paths through the rice paddies until we finally arrived at the site. I’d expected the villagers to regard our presence as interference. They couldn’t have been more welcoming.  At one point, an old woman came over and cut open my tree’s plastic root lining. “She is 80 years old” a translator told me. In an odd way she reminded me of my grandmother, who taught me to garden as a child. We worked as a team until lunch.

The villagers served us on reed mats under older trees. The Koreans demanded the villagers bring their lunch to where we left our van. But, they are the ones providing the 40 baht per tree.  We eventually convinced them to walk to where we had stopped planting.

This was likely my last trip to Buriram. I am going to miss it. The trip encompassed the best of what my organization does for rural villagers. But is it  enough? Is it counterproductive?  Or is it effective NGO work?

You decide. 

The Two Cambodias

In a similar vein to the previous post, my second trip to Cambodia showed how different the same place can appear on two separate visits.

I originally went to Siem Reap before the beginning of my internship. I thought that my company would never pay to send me to their projects there. That is exactly what they did.

There were a few differences in the itinerary. First off, we traveled by van. This meant we had to pass through the infamous Cambodian border town of Poipet. Think of it as the Khmer Tijuana: a dirty border town rife with corruption. It is also where most blue-collar Thais go to gamble. As one frequent traveler put it “Poipet rhymes with toilet for a reason”. 

Other travelers’ stories of Poipet were so horrendous that I previously choose to pay a high air fare, rather than attempt to cross through Poipet on my own.

The stories did not disappoint. The Cambodian border police, however, did. We successfully argued our way out of paying visa the officials off to simply give us a Cambodian visa. Then, they discovered that I had no more visa pages in my passport. After a 15 minute argument and 500 Bhat ‘fine’, they finally agreed to stamp it on an endorsements page and let me in the country.

I later found that the government was even more depraved than I’d thought. Those in power rely on donations from other countries for the majority of governmental income.

Fortunately, the rest of the trip went much better. We rousted ourselves the next morning at 4:30 for a different perspective of Angkor Wat. I enjoyed watching as daylight broke across the temple.

We also got the chance to sample some of the real Cambodia. Our company took us out to the villages. We bounced across dirt roads to remote villages and met the locals. Previously, I had only seen the center of Siem Reap. The differential was amazing as I took in the countryside of Cambodia’s second poorest province.

When I arrived in Siem Reap the first time, I settled back in my remorque and decided that the city and it’s immediately surrounding vicinity were unlike anything else. My second trip made me check my premises. I’m not only talking about my visits to Cambodian villages. After spending weeks in rural Thailand, the town which once seemed so exotic looked downright western. Before, I never really questioned the fact that shop owners spoke some English. I took it for granted that the restaurants served western food and, above all, cheese. Now, Siem Reap looked more like a tourist trap, albeit still an enjoyable one.

Returning to the theme of perspective’s influence on travel, my most recent adventure in Cambodia shows the pivotal role one’s viewpoint plays in forming one’s opinions. I’d been to the same Cambodian city twice. Once, as a American tourist newly arrived from America; the second time, on a business trip for a Thai NGO. The buildings were the same. But, I saw two different places. A city or country may be just as you have read of, or seen. Yet, there is always more to its picture, painted by the experiences you’ve had -- or more importantly--those you have not. 

Lessons From The Veranda

The half-way point of my internship found me up-country again. We were shadowing a group of Singaporeans as they attempted to develop products that villagers could produce. The other interns and I had seen most of the communities before. I began to get excited for the next leg of my journey: two weeks with a family in Karachi’s upscale Defense district. 

 Still, I learned a lot that time in rural Thailand. Most of it at the local Cabbages and Condoms Resort.      

After long days of re-visiting villages, I’d sit on the veranda that was the resort’s restaurant. I brought a book along with me: ‘Instant City’ by David Inskeep. The work was fascinating. It examined the science of urban migration through the history and politics of Pakistan, connecting diversity with prosperity. The book laid bare the stories of families as they attempted to rise amid sectarian violence. I read much of the tome with a dropped jaw. It was a gateway to another world.

Then the author sited Los Angeles as the American mess-of-sprawl most like Karachi.  At first I was insulted. This was odd, as I often complain about LA. More importantly, I didn’t understand what he was talking about. True, the demographics of both cities changed as they grew.  But, the LA I knew had no chronic problems with housing; nobody pulled out AK-47’s when there was a dispute. The traffic signals worked, and the stairs were one precise height.

View from the veranda

One of my fellow interns joined me on the veranda one evening. Her family came to the U.S. as refugees, fleeing the Khmer Rouge. They settled in Long Beach. I know this part of LA for an irreverent opera company that occasionally performs in the hold of the Queen Mary. This was not her Long Beach.   

 Her family had to settle one of the poorest parts of LA. There, she told me, violence and overcrowding were more common place. Uncertainty seemed to be one of the few constants. “Sometimes I feel like we have to live with this kind of …fear” she reflected, telling me that it is difficult for refugees to overcome being consigned to poorer areas.       

Unfortunately, there’s not much that can be done about it. I’m increasingly convinced that there is no realistic way to eradicate poverty.  In either city, migrants simply must go where they can find a place to live. Pashtun refugees cannot simply relocate to Karachi’s Clifton, any more than the Cambodians could to Palos Verdes.  The other intern wanted to return to America and find a solution. “There’s so much to do there, first” she said.

I wasn’t convinced. Karachi still sounded worse. People in South-Central LA have basic utilities… or at least I think they do.  One thing was certain: The Los Angeles the other intern described was not ‘my’ LA. Maybe Inskeep’s comparison is exaggerated. Maybe, in a sense, I am living in my city’s own Defense.

The same evening, the Singaporeans joined us for dinner in the restaurant. We began to discuss their country. They agreed that the strict observance of law I’d noticed on my visits were key to the country’s success. It even played an instrumental role in uniting the country, which also used to be somewhat divided along linguistic lines. However, they also told me of some of the country’s relatively more ‘shady’ areas, less known to foreigners. In one month I would see Karachi with my own eyes. But one question remained: Which Karachi would that be?

Night had come and the restaurant staff had long since gone home. I was still seated on the veranda. Whatever my experiences in Karachi would be, I knew they would coalesce to form the beginnings of my own view of the city. In that sense, maybe the two cities are not so different. I rose, and like so many in any neighborhood of either city, looked for the best way forward.

The Importance of Being Happy

After one month in Thailand I’ve had some time to grow somewhat acquainted with the Thai cultural mindset. One outstanding aspect is the importance that many Thai’s place on emotions. In my experience, most Thais will not openly tell you if they are disappointed. However, if something makes them happy you will definitely know about it.

This goes beyond social pleasantries. During sponsor visits to villages, Village chiefs would often make a point of saying how happy the visit made him. This seemed be more than just “thank you for coming” or “I’m glad you could make it”. Translations ran more along the lines of “He’s glad that you came because your visit makes him very happy”. Apparently, no further justification for the visit was necessary.

I saw the same thing when I taught English at Baan Huay Sala School. The head English teacher was very concerned that our lesions “make the children happy”. Whether or not they actually learned something seemed to be a secondary consideration.

Admittedly, the English teacher could have been assuming that the children would learn. After all, the term lesson implies that learning will occur. The teacher also taught those children in the past; in Thailand, seeing is believing. Many rural Thais won’t invest in a new enterprise until they see that it works for their friends. The village chiefs may have taken it for granted that a donor would want to see the village he was sponsoring. Maybe, the sponsor’s main reason for visiting didn’t require mentioning.  

 Perhaps I've just gotten used to the Slavic world, where complaining is the order of the day. The Thai way might not be bad at all when you think about it. After all, who doesn't want to be happy, right?