I hop onto my rickety bike, place my water bottle in the front basket and head for the Muslim market. The street gets more and more narrow until I hit the alley full of people and merchandise. I stand on the petals and play a game in my mind where I slowly dodge mopeds, people, livestock and trash before having to put my foot on the ground and walk my bike amongst the chaos.
Once I’m out of the market I transition into the street like a bullet out of a long barreled shot gun. I zoom past street vendors on both sides selling meat on sticks and tin bowls full of mini eels swimming around panicking from claustrophobia. To my right there is an open lush field and the sun is preparing to paint pictures in the sky.
I turn left onto the gravel road and dodge potholes that a meteor shower must have created. I see a little girl in a dress jumping in the trashy water drainage as if it were a slip-n-slide. There are droopy wooden shacks on both sides and kids running rampant everywhere. Up ahead I see the mosque, painted in a hundred different shades of green. That’s when I know that I have arrived.
The Muslim Neighborhood: Mae Sot, Thailand
The first time I rode my bike here I was seeking out some soccer and that’s exactly what I found. Deep into the cultural neighborhood are two dirt soccer fields with wooden posts on each end. One field is small and one large to separate the boys from the men.
My first couple of appearances I played with the boys. They were a little reluctant at first but once they saw that I liked to pass the ball they became much more willing to have me on their team. Throughout the evening more and more kids joined our game and I departed at dark. The kids started calling me “Jelly” because that’s what they thought my name was when I introduced myself as “Derik” (At least that’s what I like to tell myself).
When I roll in next to the mosque the kids start yelling “JELLY, jelly, jelly” and wave me towards the big boy field. Apparently it was time for me to join the adult game.
The big boy field is an entirely different ball game. These guys look mean, yet hysterical at the same time. Many of them have short hair with pig tails pointing their hair up like an extra set of ears. Some play with cleats on a field that has been deprived of grass since the beginning of time. Others wear no footwear, or sandals, or tennis shoes, or a shoe on one foot and nothing on the other.
Their smiles reveal the dark red stains of betel nut (Asia’s form of chewing tobacco). Many wear Myanmar (Burma) jerseys showing off their pride of being from the war torn country, only a walking distance away.
A few of their girlfriends sit on the sideline and watch the game beneath a large tree. A herd of goats always graze near the field like boring fans looking for the concession stand. Cattle are escorted next to the field and act as a barrier when the ball rolls out of bounds.
There’s a homeless man who sits cross legged and watches the match every night. He wears a large winter coat, in the midst of heat that makes your back tickle from beads of sweat raining constantly downward. He sits right next to a large bag full of collected plastic materials. Every now and then, the ball from the match rolls in his direction, he runs over to get it and punts it as hard as he can. It’s always a wildcard, sometimes it gets back to the field, most of the time it ends up much farther away than where he received it.
I look forward to the nights when I get to bike to the Muslim neighborhood. When I get to feel free for a moment and be welcomed into a community that I don’t understand. I get to toss language out of the window and communicate and connect without having to say a word.
There have been lots of times in my life and on this race where I regret the words I speak. On these nights I’m quiet, yet on my ride back I feel like I communicated beyond anything I had to say throughout my day.
