8 Reasons You Should Pay to Volunteer Abroad

This blog was first published on Matador Network on 23 July, 2015.

1. It costs the charity/nonprofit/NGO money.

It doesn’t matter what you call them, it costs them money to host you. Whether you’re helping for an afternoon, a weekend away, or an extended stay — YOU cost money. Maybe it’s the cost of your breakfast; maybe it’s the cost of the person to clean your fork and spoon. Maybe they have to transfer you from hotel to job site. Maybe you’re using huge quantities of soap to scrub the paint from your elbows. Providing all of that costs money. Alright, it does sound kinda petty — it’s just a $5 meal, a 5-minute ride and a 5pm shower, but think of that times 500 volunteers. It all adds up.

Fact: Expenses associated with hosting volunteers can include: accommodations, meals, supplies, transportation, supervision, training, cultural activities, health and liability insurance. These are just the direct costs, which average around $500 per person for a one week volunteer trip in Latin America with a reputable organization like Habitat for Humanity, but let’s not forget indirect costs. Most organizations will add on an additional amount to cover the time staff members put into planning for your stay, plus other support that might not be so obvious, like equipment, facilities, clinics or schools.

2. Donations should be spent on programs and services, not your shampoo.

You remember the conversation last spring, it was fascinating: Uncle Bert and Aunt Bessie had pics of the art therapy program they help support for traumatized kids in Nepal. They’d really done their homework and found an organization that directs almost all their funds to program work. They were so happy about that. They work hard for their money; and want every penny to go to the kids, just like most donors.

You get it, charities are 100% dependent on donations. You know they run on tight budgets. Whether it’s Aunt & Uncle B, the government, a corporation or foundation, all donors want their money spent wisely. Organizations must prioritize; spending money on a volunteer’s accommodation or shampoo just doesn’t make the cut.

Fact: The top-ranked organizations on Charity Navigator earn four-star ratings for spending their donations well AND making a tangible, measurable difference. In other words, nonprofits are accountable to their donors. Funds must be spent on the mission, not your bottled water.

3. The organization’s focus is its beneficiaries, not you.

You’re heading out there to help; you don’t want to be a distraction. What if you were asking the program director where to put the invasive vines you just wrestled out and, while she was showing you, she missed a call saying a poacher had just entered the preserve? You know it wasn’t your fault; the organization can’t afford a volunteer manager and somebody has to help you. But you feel extra bad knowing they already put in lots of time planning for your arrival: answering e-mails, organizing a schedule, orientation and training…. Ugh.

You start doing the math, all that plus the time spent on you while you’re there. You know everyone still comes out ahead, but what if they missed other calls or important work? A volunteer manager would definitely help, but who pays for her? You know Auntie & Uncle B won’t support it, so you don’t mind if your volunteer vacation fees do.

Fact: For more than ten years Save the Children has ranked as a top 4-star charity. Here’s part of the reason why — 89% of their funds directly support their beneficiaries.

4. Helping others involves personal sacrifice and commitment. It is NOT a vacation.

You’ve been on-site a few days and have seen how tired the staff is when they catch the bus home. You know they live modestly and get paid less than their peers in the for-profit world. You can see their passion and how building a family a home allows their daughter to go to school, she can get an education and not be married off at age 12. The program director tells you it’s worth all the sacrifice. She’ll take less pay so more money can go to the save the children/animals/waterways/stick insects. You’re proud to do the same; you don’t need a handout from a charity!

Fact: A 2010 study by the NonProfit Quarterly revealed that the average annual salary of an American in ‘management occupations’ at a large, for-profit US organization was $94,628. And her nonprofit counterpart? $72,509.

5. It’s more than volunteering.

You think you’re going just to volunteer, but you’re not. You might not know it when you first arrive, but your contribution will go way beyond scrubbing watermelons to feed a handicapped elephant. You’re about to become an ambassador for the mission and a lifelong supporter. You’ll be sharing photos on Instagram and voicing your indignation on Twitter. (Can you believe that yellow furred horses have fewer rights than spotted? Please help save the children from mermaids and Prince Charming!!)

The awareness you bring after is just as valuable as the activities you accomplish there. And maybe you’re not earning the big bucks yet, but when you make your first donation, who’s it gonna go to? Yup, you got it.

Fact: 84% of volunteers go on to contribute in bigger ways.

6. You meet people who inspire you, help you, and become great friends.

Maybe your people back home don’t understand, they just listen to your stories politely before their eyes gla…oooh shiny!

But don’t worry, you’ve got your fellow volunteers to connect with. Like the girl from Chicago who you conspired with to get table scraps to the stray dog outside. Or the French-Canadian guy who offered you a hard hat for protection against falling mangoes. You know that the German grad student shares your outrage over abused elephants and the Indian woman you just met already feels like a sister. So pick hardening concrete from your shoelaces and drink beer from a trash can-turned-cooler. Someone’s about to rewrite the lyrics of ‘Piano Man’ to describe your group. These people are kin.

Fact: According to the Adventure Travel Trade Association, slightly more females (53%) volunteer than men (47%), but the age groups are pretty well split 33% are 20-40 year olds and 34% are 41-60. 12% are under 20.

7. You access the culture in a way most don’t.

You’re not a tourist. You’re not on resort row. You’re not being touted to buy made-in-China souvenirs that can be relabeled to shout Bali! or Cancun! or Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! You’re in a place that most non-locals bypass and it’s fantastic. It’s a place where oxen are still used to plough fields and water is pumped from a well. There’s probably a tribal language and a national language and no English language. Maybe you play football with neighborhood teens after work. Maybe you’re taught to make pupusas for dinner. Maybe some Buddhists invite you to release fish and make merit. Or maybe a shaman blesses your arrival. After all that, you relax on a local beach run by fishermen and seaweed farmers — not a lounge chair in sight.

8. There’s no price tag on feeling the love.

You’ll first feel it on arrival. There’s a burst of something that hasn’t been there since childhood. Resuscitating laughter. Unobstructed joy. You’re finally here, you’re doing it. Your emotions crank up. Locals want to receive your smile and ask: ‘why would a stranger come all this way to help us?’ A little girl gives you a balloon with a smiley face and all the villagers turn up to wave goodbye. It’s a connection you’ve never felt before and money spent on other things just won't

compare.

Fact: Volunteering is a mood enhancer. People who do it have increased happiness, life satisfaction, self-esteem, sense of control over life, physical health and decreased depression. Oh yeah, and it’s addictive.

Balinese Play

This post was first published on Spice Roads blog  - 14 July, 2015

 

It first happens the night we arrive in Bali. In an open-air restaurant, punctuated by tiki-torches and paper lanterns, my friend asks the waitress, “What does the chicken curry come with?”

She looks at us straight-faced and replies, “Chicken.”

We smother confused smiles, then giggle until our drinks arrive. The next night we realize the joke is on us. Once again we order a chicken dish, and once again the waiter serves up a wry comment.

“Ah, yes,” he replies, glancing out to the stone courtyard. “The chicken is still…. running.”

This time we catch the teasing eye.

Among all the wonders of Bali, the island that most likely (and deservedly) gave birth to some of the world’s most over-used  travel clichés: tropical paradise, breath-taking views, and mouth-watering flavors, it’s the playfulness of the Balinese people that tickles me most.

In Ubud, an energetic town famous for its role in Eat, Pray, Love, offers of taxi tours, foot massages and fire dancing shows greet us as we climb the ancient streets. Touts lounge in front of coconut carts, ornate stone walls and shops that sell everything from handmade batik and wooden masks to silver jewelry and Western fashions.  

“Taxi?”

“No, thank you.”

“Taxi?”

“No, thank you.”

“You sure? To the moon is free!”

One sly driver holds up a laminated sign as we pass. Taxi?  We shake our heads. He smiles with gapped teeth and flips over the sign. Maybe tomorrow? We laugh, accepting his offer and ingenuity.

We set out the next day, driving past Hindu temples and wooded thickets of tropical fruit trees. A stray animal runs out from the curb.

“Chicken!” I yell.

“Sa-TAAAAY!!” Says the driver, licking his lips and pretending to rev the engine.

We reach the rice terraces and trek alongside neon-green paddies in harvest. Sweaty farmers stoop over the crops cutting rhythmically with curved scythes. The mid-sky sun flames their backs as they slosh in knee-deep mud. It is nauseating and low-paid work.

Around a bend, four workers rest beneath a banana tree. They see us and perk up.

“Hello! English! English! Hello!”

We stop to greet them.

“Yes! English! Yes!” They call.

“I speak! I speak!” Says one.

There’s a long pause before she continues, “Hello! How are you! I love you! Goodnight!”

Laughter follows. The group begins singing it as a chant.  

“Hello! How are you! I love you! Goodnight!... Hello! How are you! I love you! Goodnight!.... Hello! How are you!  I love you! Goodnight!”

Later, as I’m leaving, I realize the full truth of those words… Hello People of Bali, I think I love you. Goodnight!

A Lung of Fresh Air – Bangkok’s Jungle

This post was first published on Spice Roads blog  - 14 July, 2015

I’m straddling a ten speed bike on a narrow, concrete path hoisted two meters above marshy wetlands surrounded by forest. Across from us a teak house sits on stilts with potted plants and drying clothes. Wind chimes tinkle. 

“Don’t look down,” jokes Don, my guide. Of course I do, and he's right, it's not a good place for vertigo, not a good place to fall. 

 

This is Bang Krachao, Bangkok’s urban jungle. No, that's not a metaphor, it’s a real jungle.  

“In English, they call it The Lung," says Don, a Thai native. “There are 1,500 homes, no tall buildings, no factories. No development allowed.” The residents here share 18sq km of lung-shaped, oxygen-rich space. And it’s located exactly where a lung should be, slightly off center from Bangkok’s heart - encircled by the looping Chao Phraya River, a pulsing artery of transit.

The day’s cycling tour starts in the city.  We pedal down leafy backstreets where delivery boys unload carts of sacked rice and faded-haired women sweep with thatched brooms. Colored bunting, alternating between the flags of King and Country, stretches overhead.  We cross a small canal and discover a giant, golden Buddha hidden under a dingy overpass.

“And now for the boat,” says Don, leading me down a crowded alley. He loads my bike on a ferry and we escape the port’s warehouses, cranes and fumes.  

Rustling leaves and bleating frogs greet us at the Lung. The pier gapes with empty chairs and vacant stools while a ticket seller waits for fares. We mount our bikes and pedal off at half-speed.

Around the bend, chants tumble from a Buddhist wat.

“It’s Monk’s Day,” Don informs me. The temple is sharp and colorful, perfumed by incense. A pile of shoes sits outside the shrine where practitioners pray.

“Two things are for Monks Day,” Don begins. “In Buddhism, now is when we ordain monks, but now is also when the spirits of our ancestors and unhappy people are most active.” He shows me the burial chedis and the offerings left to ensure good favor: flowers, sodas and rice.

“And, kids must not go out at night because ghosts will take them.” I pause when he says this, then ask if he believes it.

“There are ghosts,” he says and tells me that Thai people are highly superstitious. “Maybe they won’t take the them, but this is what we tell kids.” He shrugs.

We continue along the elevated paths through papaya groves and palm forests with the smell of woodsy decay. We follow a canal past villages and a floating market before braking at a second, livelier pier.

Don purchases fresh mangosteens and rambutans, and I ask where he learned English.

“I lived in Belgium.”  The connection isn’t clear, but he tells me about his time there anyway. 

“There’s no food in Antwerp,” he says, peeling the fruit. “In Thailand, we have food on every street. You can eat all day, every day. In Belgium, you have to go in a restaurant. It’s expensive and after 8pm, no food.”

I look at the options around us: fish balls with chili sauce, papaya salad, BBQ squid, sausages, curries, even coconut ice cream. Vendors sell them from pushcarts for less than 60 baht (US$2). Food, good food, is everywhere.

We clean up and move on, cycling along a sparsely used main road that delivers us to a manicured park. Don tells me to wait while he goes for some food. The mangosteen juice is still sticky on my fingers. 

I wait in the shade admiring the lake and pavilions. Locals stroll on meandering paths through European-style gardens. Don returns and hands me a bag of snacks I’m not hungry for.

“For the fish,” he says and I laugh. I dump half in the water and frenzy ensues - the fish here are as food crazy as the people. 

With everyone fed and the day at an end, I lay back on the grass relaxed. Our bikes stand glinting in the sun as birds twitter and a pair of butterflies dance. Soon, I’ll be back in the heart of the city, but for now I take a deep breath and give thanks to Bangkok’s Lung.

Write now....

Time for a little update.... I've stumbled into a hobby-career as a paid, freelance travel writer.

Write now (yes, that's intentional), I'm working on pieces for Verge Magazine and Matador Network, both should be published in the coming months. Plus, Expat Parents of Bangkok just accepted an older piece of mine about a weekend I spent babysitting my nieces and nephew... I was flown from the East Coast, to the Mid-West while their parents ventured to the Deep South, for THREE DAYS!! I can't even water a house plant - never mind 3 kids.

I'm now blogging for Spice Roads too and my first two posts were just published.  Spice Roads is a pretty cool adventure cycling company that runs tours in 30 countries from Albania to Madagascar, Greece to Vietnam, with Thailand as their hub. For me, the beauty is in going on all their day trips and then getting to write about them. Basically, I'm being paid to do what other people are paying to do... how lucky am I?? :)

I also enrolled in MatadorU, an online travel media school, which I'm really loving.  The faculty includes some of the most fascinating, awe-inspiring people I've met. There are UN reporters, NPR commentators and winners of the Lowell Thomas prize for travel journalism. I'm taking two courses - advanced travel writing and fundamentals of travel photography. (They also have classes on film making, but whoa, slow down there, Bessie.  All this is already making my head spin. I am not doing video, too!) But, anyway, if you, or someone you know, thinks you might want some schooling in travel writing, photography or film making, check them out and sign up here.  MatadorU (I get credit if you use my link!)

Anyway, over the next few days I will post all of the pieces I mentioned above here, in this blog, along with my homework assignments for school. So if anyone still reads this thing, stay tuned.... it's about to get some reading/writing love!

Why did the chicken cross the road? To get the heck out of Bali.

I’m told it’s hard to makes jokes in a second language. For me it’s hard to make jokes period, in English, English or English. Words, ideas, humor just doesn’t always translate.  But then we have the people of Bali… on a small island, renowned for its cultural gifts, there is one less recognized art form they’ve mastered - quick wit, one-liners and deadpan delivery… and they do it all in English.

It first happens the night we arrive. In an open-air restaurant, punctuated by tiki-torches and paper lanterns, my friend asks the waitress, “What does the chicken curry come with?”

She looks at us straight-faced and replies, “Chicken.”

We smother our smiles until she’s gone, then giggle over our Bali Moon cocktails.  But the next night we realize the joke is on us. Once again we order a chicken dish, and once again we receive a wise-crack in return.

“Ah…yes,” our waiter replies, glancing out to the stone courtyard. “The chicken is still running. You wait.”

This time we caught the secret smile.

Bali is a cultural oddity in the Indonesian archipelago of about 17,000 islands. They’re a unique hold-out of Hinduism and their native Balinese language surrounded by a literal sea of Islam and other more dominant tongues. Mixed in is a robust heritage of spirituality, art and culture. That flair for artistry and aesthetics is what first attracted Dutch visitors a hundred years ago and continues to draw tourists today. From batik, to dance, to stone carvings and jewelry, Bali is a center for creative exchange. Art classes, galleries and theatrical performances dominate, why shouldn’t they be comedians too?

A few days later we’re driving on a private tour, passing tropical fruit trees on a winding mountain road, when a stray animal bursts out in front of us.

“Chicken!” I yell.

“Sa-TAAAAY!!” responds the driver, licking his lips and playfully revving the engine.

The truth is chickens are everywhere. Mama hens round up their chicks on the hard packed earth of a rice farmer’s home, others peck coconut husks down the cities’ side alleys while roosters line the roadside in rattan cages.

“For fighting.” Our guide explains. There’s silence as my friend and I uncomfortably consider what he means. Ugh.

“Is cock-fighting that common?”

  

"Yes," he replies. Then he turns to us with a grin, "because we have no casinos!”

Heffalump Heaven: A Week of Transforming Cruelty to Love

This article appeared on page 38 of the June/July 2015 issue of Expat Ladies of Bangkok. An online PDF of the magazine can be viewed here: http://www.expatlifeinthailand.com/emagazine-june-july-2015/ 

Heffalump Heaven: A Week of Transforming Cruelty to Love

I grew up with elephants.

On my walls, that is. I was introduced to the herd as a toddler; a parading family of repeating patterns. For years they listened in on bedtime stories, co-hosted sleepovers and kept the identity of the tooth fairy secret. Then one by one they began to disappear, their territory poached by swelling adolescence and magazine tear outs of Johnny Depp.

Feeding and posing with a 'real- life' herd

I never gave elephants much thought after that, but somehow they never forgot about me. Unexpectedly, I found them spying on me in my apartment in Bangkok; a graffiti style painting, a wood carving on a shelf, a necklace on my nightstand, a painted umbrella in the corner. They were everywhere, watching, waiting….  

My herd had returned.

I don’t know how these things work. Is it a calling? The work of Animism? A yearning for simpler days of childhood? Whatever it is, I now find myself jetting off to an elephant sanctuary in the north of Thailand. For one week, I’ll be feeding, bathing and caring for abused and orphaned animals.  I just wish I could have conjured Johnny Depp as well.

My fellow volunteers and I are collected from our city hotels and transferred to the sanctuary. En route we watch a video introducing us to the plight of Thailand’s elephants and the park’s founder Sangduen ‘Lek’ Chailert. By the time it ends, we’re rolling with excitement as mountains buckle the horizon.

Lek and some of the youngsters

The Elephant Nature Park sits 60 kilometers outside Chiang Mai. It’s home to 44 rescued elephants ranging from babies to octogenarians, each with its own mahout, or handler.  Also onsite is a herd of rescued water buffalo and an adoption center with over 500 dogs and cats.

Elephants are social and matriarchal, forming self-chosen groups within the herd. Each has best friends they adore and rivals they won’t mix with. The three males live separately, same as in the wild. All are allowed to roam free, for some it’s the first time.

We’re greeted by large baskets of fruit and exclamations that ‘The elephants are coming!’ Three appear on the opposite riverbank. They ramble down a slope and splash through the current to join us. One is limping badly. Their trunks sniff us out and wrap around the chunks of watermelon and pumpkins that we offer. They eat the melons quickly, but drop the squash. Only after the sweeter fruit is gone do they stamp on the pumpkin, breaking it into bite-sized pieces. Like me as a kid, they eat their favorite things first.

Lame, and with a back that slopes too sharply, Medo is central to the group. Her back foot is unnaturally twisted while the opposite leg swings awkwardly above the ground. An initial logging accident broke her ankle and left her unfit for work. Needing revenue, her owner put her in a forced breeding program. When she resisted the bull, he attacked her, dislocating her hip and leaving her crippled. Years later, Lek found her and brought her to ENP. The other two females in the group recognize Medo’s disability and now care for her.

Bath time

After feeding, we’re assigned rooms. The accommodations are simple, twin beds with mosquito nets dangling like princess-style canopies. My roommate and I open the shutters to discover a friendly view of the elephant shelter just 15 meters away. I fall asleep to them snuffling and am awakened by an occasional trumpet.

At orientation, we learn that in 1989, Thailand’s logging ban coincided with its rise in tourism. Visitors demanded elephant interaction and many animals used in logging were retrained to perform tricks and wear a howdah, or riding carriage. Now, tourists expect unnatural activities like trekking, painting, and playing soccer that harm the animals they come to admire. Elephants with unsightly injuries are relegated to street begging or forced breeding programs like Medo’s. Babies too young to be separated from their mothers are sent to entertain people on crowded streets alone. The elephants become tools and commodities, subjected to over-work, malnutrition, stress and aggressive outbursts from abusive mahouts.

Aside from the orphans, all ENP’s residents are former working elephants, too old and handicapped to provide further economic value. They are purchased from their owners at what’s become a rising cost. Mahouts recognize the growth of sanctuaries like ENP and now charge up to US$20,000 for a disabled animal.  

Veterinary caseload at ENP - Sa-za is the newest arrival

Many elephants arrive with ‘mental problems’ and behavioral quirks, from years of mistreatment. Faa Sai, whose feet had been chained together for much of her life, spent her first months at the park stiffly hopping up river banks and down hills. She was unaccustomed to walking naturally and couldn’t comprehend that her legs were now free.

An injury from a landmine

Other elephants at ENP have suffered broken bones from falls, car accidents and felled trees, or serious wounds and infections from harnesses and chains. Some are blind from improper eye care complicated by circus spotlights, or the punishment of a mahout. Four stepped on landmines. It can take a year for new arrivals to adjust and trust - some never do, but other members of the herd provide the best therapy. 

As the speaker continues, I grow uneasy.  Just three weeks earlier I rode an elephant, teetering in a howdah as she climbed the mountain trail. We jerked and swayed uncomfortably with each massive step, frequently sprayed by ‘water’ from her trunk as she attempted to stay cool in the heat. The experience was anything but majestic.

My gut said it was wrong, but I wasn’t sure why. What I didn’t realize was the brutality of the training used to tame the elephant, nor the physical strain of the howdah. Even if I’d walked alongside or ridden bareback it would have been better. Ironically, the trip was part of a larger NGO organized excursion promoting eco-tourism. They included the trek as a perk, accepting it without question, assuming that because ‘everyone is doing it, it must be ok’. It’s not.

ENP embraces conservation and community development at all levels. We eat vegetarian meals on an open air platform with elephants roaming by, the occasional trunk flicks over the railing sniffing for handouts. Staff feed the leftovers to rescued pigs and tend organic gardens. Straws, plastic bags, and disposable containers are non-existent.

Scrubbing watermelons

Local women set up massage mats with second floor views of elephants at play and mahouts carve figurines for added income. Each is paid directly. When an international hotel offered to upgrade the park with luxury rooms on condition that Lek eliminated volunteering, she declined. It wasn’t her style.

Volunteers are fundamental and our first task is cleaning the shelters where the elephants sleep. It’s like mucking a horse stall, except one the size of a 7-Eleven. There are corn husks for straw and poo balls the size of cantaloupes. I am shrunk like an ant in a shoe box. 

 

We move on to cutting corn and banana trees, cleaning the yard and feeding. In the elephant kitchen we unload trucks of melons and squash.  We scrub fruit and become specialists in making tamarind balls; mixing the gooey fibers with salt and sugar – a heffalump delight.

Lek invites us on an ‘elephant walk’ to introduce us to the herd. She is gracious, warm and tiny;

Meeting the herd

dedicating equal attention to guest and elephant.  Six females stand near the river. They recognize Lek and move towards us. We make room for one that’s blind and another that’s unpredictable. Lek greets them in her characteristic squat, as if the animals are the height of cats. They smother her face with the tips of their trunks.

The blind one is Jokia, rescued from the logging trade. She miscarried while pulling a tree trunk uphill and was forbidden to check on her baby. Too distraught to work, her mahout sprayed her with rocks from a slingshot to get her going. She still refused, even when one hit her eye. Unsuccessful, the mahout sold her to a new owner with a new strategy.  This owner believed that blinding her completely would make her more dependent and responsive. He stabbed her good eye with a stick before discovering he was wrong. Neither eye healed. 

A tractor drives by and spooks Jokia. She trumpets in alarm. Mae Perm, Jokia’s best friend and sighted protector, runs to her side. They connect with trunks extended; one in confusion, the other in calm. Scenes like this play out regularly as healthier elephants adopt disabled ones to care for their needs. The pair moves to a mud pit and coat each other in dirt, a natural sunblock and bug repellent.

Near them is Navaan, a two year old troublemaker. He was born at the park to a landmine victim with an injured foot.  He tosses a deflated exercise ball over his head, tangles himself in a fire hose and breaks a metal sports goal intended for staff use. His mother, and the three nanny elephants that help raise him, munch corn stalks and watch. Tired, he joins them to nurse, then takes off chasing the park’s dogs - as if pachyderms and canines were everyday friends.

Navaan, his mom and nannies

That night, Lek opens a series of evening activities, but is sidelined when the dogs hear her voice and rush the meeting room in a buckshot of howls. Eventually, we settle down to watch a 2002 documentary National Geographic filmed with Lek. They had been granted access to witness a phajaan, or training crush, a closely-guarded, centuries’ old tradition deeply ingrained in Asian working elephant culture. Unlike horses, dogs, or cats, there is no history of selective breeding with elephants; no cultivation of preferred traits or less aggressive tendencies. These animals, or their parents, have come directly from the jungle and are truly wild. Any ‘gentleness’ we experience is a result of the phajaan, where men break a young elephant’s spirit and force it into submission. Tradition says that elephants must fear man and the consequences of their own disobedience. The scenes are shocking. I fight the pressure of tears and involuntarily clasp my mouth in horror. Someone sobs.  Others leave.

Lek knew that she was at risk for exposing the phajaan. Changing culture means changing economics. Her advocacy efforts threaten both elephant tourism and illegal logging industries. Despite international awards, documentaries and global coverage of her conservation efforts (Discovery, Animal Planet, BBC, CNN and Hillary Clinton), there are many who want her silenced. Still, she lobbies for animal rights and recently secured Thai legislation stipulating all elephants over 55 must be retired.

Sri Prae receives a foot bath for her injury, plus lots of melons

The evening talks spark discussion as we work. Can wild animals be trained without brutality? How? For the park’s veterinarians, treating an injured 4,000kg animal is dangerous; so risky that some ailments remain impossible to address. ENP counters this with positive reinforcement training and encourages the elephants to voluntarily participate in their own treatment. Staff leverage patience, respect and lots of bananas to show the herd that they now have a choice. Elephants that willingly present their injuries are rewarded. If their discomfort becomes too great they can step away and return later. Despite ENP’s success with this method, it’s unknown if it could be used as a reliable alternative to the phajaan. 

Ethical questions and debatable answers keep coming. Should elephants continue to work for humans?  If tourism camps close, how do elephants and mahouts earn a living? Are more sanctuaries needed and how sustainable are they?

The answers are complex. Moving to abolish working elephants completely feels too idealistic. However, we can improve their treatment and modify tourism. Walking next to an elephants is more companionable than being on it, feeding it is more intimate than watching it paint, and bathing it is more engaging than sport. As tourists, we can use our demand to control the supply. We can choose where to spend our baht, thus influencing the activities being offered. We can become more educated, sophisticated travelers, selecting operators who only promote elephant conservation and positive interactions.

A flower symbolically placed in a bull hook hole

The week is both uplifting and heart-breaking, but we all feel fulfilled knowing the sanctuary is where humans now work for elephants, where friendship enables handicaps, and where love triumphs neglect.

As our discussions dissolve, we uncover what truly matters from our time at the Elephant Nature Park. It’s in the knowledge we gain and the message we pass on.  It’s in us becoming a voice for the elephants and life-long champions for change. ‘Come in and pet an elephant,’ becomes ‘Come, stand up for its rights.’  

Do the melons really need washing and are 14 people required to shovel poo? No. Probably not. That’s just what gets us in the door.

In Limbo in Laos

So here’s the absurdity of Asian culture that’s left me stranded in Laos. (OK, so thanks to my parents and the ultimate trump card of a second passport I will never really, truly be stuck anywhere…) But hear me out.

So it was one year ago today I hopped a Metro-North train into Manhattan and gleefully obtained my business visa to go to Thailand.  My year is now up which means I have to leave the country and get a new visa. No problem and kind of exciting to map out all the major cities across South East Asia and take my pick of which one to visit. 

Communist Laos.... not ideal for business, duh.

I choose Vientiane, Laos (yes, that’s the capital) because I’m not really a fan of big, modern, cities, especially when I already live in one. Vientiane is small, full of temples, Frenchness and foreignness – perfect for me, though maybe not for my visa run. Laos is one of five remaining communist countries in the world and probably one most people would never think of when playing the country game on some long, cross-country road trip. Places like Lebanon, Lithuania, Luxembourg or even Libya are more likely to pop out ahead of Laos and that’s really kind of sad.  Anyway, if I had thought of this I might not have come here. How many business visas does a small, oft-forgotten, communist country typically issue anyway?   It’s not exactly a hub of commerce. The answer….

Zero. I now know this for a fact.  (To my defense I did check their website before I left to confirm they issue business visas. It states they do and I even used their checklist to make sure I had all the required documents. See, right here….  http://vientiane.thaiembassy.org/vientiane/en/consular/consular_check/ )

So I tuk-tuk off this morning arriving at the consulate shortly after the 8.30 opening. I obediently get my number and wait with all the soon-to-be Thai tourists applying for more standard visas. My number gets called, I go up and handover my paperwork. He reads through everything slowly and deliberately.  I then realize from his questions he has no understanding of what a business visa is. Neither does his colleague. He declares he ‘can’t decide’ and then tells me to step aside and wait.

I sit for ten minutes.  Nothing happens.  My passport and paperwork now sit under a newspaper on his desk. I’m confused. Why am I waiting? What’s going on?

So I go back up and ask.  It turns out he can't decide, so we are waiting for Boss. Boss may or may not know about business visas. Boss is across town at the embassy. Boss has not been contacted. Boss cannot be contacted. Please sit and wait. Boss doesn’t come down to the consulate every day. Boss came down yesterday. Boss is very busy this week. Boss cannot be asked for help. Boss may not show up. Please sit and wait.  Boss cannot be told there is an issue they need help with. Boss cannot be summoned because culturally that would be insubordination. Please sit and wait.

Instead….

Lynn must sit and wait. If Boss does not arrive today, Lynn must come back tomorrow. Lynn must sit and wait. If Boss does not arrive tomorrow, Lynn must come back the next day.  Lynn must sit and wait. Boss may come. Boss may not come. Lynn must wait. Boss must not be contacted. Lynn must wait. Boss is very busy this week. Boss has a conference. Lynn cannot call Boss. Boss must not be disturbed. Lynn is disempowered. Lynn must sit and wait…..

Update: No Boss today. Tomorrow I go back. 8.30am – 4.30pm. Tomorrow I will sit and wait…..