Buffalo in My Backyard
Chloe Hudgins, 136 YinD
I used to think that watching the buffalo in my backyard was the coolest darn thing in the world–it was so Peace Corps. Over time, though, the buffalo lost some of their appeal; they became a physical reminder that they are closer to me than I am to actual people.
My site, located in the Uthai Thani province, is home to 12 moo-baans (villages) and over 7,000 people. When I first read my site packet during PST, I imagined a large community, meeting tons of people, and eventually knowing everyone. But first impressions are hardly ever the reality. I learned that the 7,000 people are spread far apart, the houses and stores scattered sparsely between the fields.
There are so many amazing things about my site, but the lack of “community” is definitely a challenge for me– probably the biggest one. While I did a great job at not having hard expectations of what my Peace Corps experience would look like, it was impossible not to imagine a small village with lots of neighbors and a close-knit atmosphere where everything is nearby.
The community I live in feels less like a village and more like a bunch of intersections on a grid system with a couple of houses on each corner, each intersection about 1 km from the next, and rice fields in between. There’s one noodle shop, and the entire sub-district has one fresh market that opens on Sunday evenings, about 5 km from my house.
The district– with its perpetual market, mini-Lotus, 7-11, and “civilization” –is 17 km away, about a two-hour round trip by bicycle if I want to brave the big road. Almost everyone I work with at the SAO, including my counterpart and most of the “local” teachers, actually live in the district or in another city about 45 minutes away.
It’s quite frustrating being so isolated, and I’m reminded of this every day when my coworkers debate what they’ll pick up for dinner after work.
I, who can rarely put together a balanced and complete meal that same day, cannot help but be envious. Envious of their cars and motorcycles with headlights that can drive faster than the dogs can run, and their proximity to restaurants, shops, and markets that are open past 2 PM.
All of my problems are real problems, but for too long I’ve been stuck comparing my site to others’ – watching their weekend clubs, evening walks with neighbors and friends, and neighborhood-style lives. I’ve even begun comparing my life to that of my coworkers in the SAO, none of whom live like I do, even though that’s supposed to be the whole point.
My wonderful friends who recently got a taste of the rural transportation system, who braved the long song-taews and inter-province minivans to help with my English Camp, helped me to change my mindset. One thing that stood out during their visit was the constant, “It is so beautiful here!”, a concept that so often escapes my daily thoughts. Their being in town was the best thing for improving my appreciation for my site, something I desperately needed.
They reminded me that yes, I do have to bike 30 minutes to my Wednesday school, but I’m passing by a beautiful mountain and lush greenery. My long and straight road, of which no cars ever pass, and there are no houses for 5 km, are lined with mango trees and green rice fields. There are dogs, but there are also monkeys! There’s a whole lot of nothing, but there’s also a whole lot of everything.
I’ve made it a goal for my second year to find more beauty in the “boonies”, as my counterpart and I lovingly call my community. To take more pictures, to get rid of the weekend exhaustion that keeps me from wanting to bike to the mountain, and to try to get to know the people who live in the community full-time.
My feeling of claustrophobia may never go away for the rest of my service. I’ll still have to plan all of my meals around the Sunday market or suffer eating instant noodles for breakfast and dinner until I can tag along with someone going to the district. Service is still going to be hard, but at least I’m starting to notice the things I used to ignore.
