Chabad Patong

This happened 5 days ago, but it took some time for me to write, as it was a rich experience.


Last night Ned and I put on our best clothes, and drove south to the most touristy beach to find the Chabad House.



Chabad House is a Jewish house with a Rabbi (usually from Israel) and his family that create a space for travelers who want to observe Shabbes, pray or just seek familiar refuge in a strange land.



Patong Beach sure is a strange land for Orthodox Jews. I read a shirt yesterday that summed it up, "Heaven is where good boys go, Patong is where bad boys go." Patong is the Red Light District of this island, and it is crawling with tourists. Especially Israelis, the travel-dogs of the globe. I see them everywhere I go, Internet cafes in Patagonia have Hebrew letters taped onto the keyboards, they travel everywhere, and in groups and are unmistakable by their tanned skin and curly hair, and the bumble of boisterous noise and giant backpacks right behind them.



Wherever Israelis go, Chabad tries to go too.



Last night we parked and walked in the general direction of where we thought Chabad would be. I spotted two Israeli-looking girls, and indeed they were, and we asked for directions. They joined us, and we found the Chabad house, right next to a bar that kept a monkey chained to a concrete table.



Chabad was a great big room, with lots of tables and chairs. A partition in the middle separated the room in two: one side for men, one for women. I've memorized the candle lighting prayer, and so I proudly lit my candle and said the prayer. Ned too, and then he went to the other side to pray (or pretend, because he can't read Hebrew!)


The women all sit on the other side and small talk. The men went on praying for over an hour while more and more people arrived. I was getting bored and started starring at pages of the prayer book on the table because once a rabbi's wife told me, "Just to look at Hebrew words is like lightning for the soul. You don't have to know how to read it."


I also began to feel very nervous, and out of place because everyone was speaking Hebrew, and I'm not technically Jewish, and even though I have the dark Jew curls and olive complexion, I still feel out of sorts. The men get so crowded in their prayer room that they have to stand up, and finally I get a glimpse of the Rabbi: a smiling faced, 20 year old young man, with a blond bushy beard. My stomach flip-flopped when I saw him because he was so young, so sweet but resolutely strong looking.


I started getting nervous about saving a seat for Ned, so I pushed the seat next to me in, and the lady nearby me started scolding me in Hebrew. Wide-eyed, I said, "I'm sorry, I don't understand Hebrew." So she translated, "This seat is open. If somebody wants to sit, they sit, we say good."

I still didn't understand. "I want to save this seat for my friend," I said. She gave me a too nice look, turned over the cup on the plate, and smiled. I still felt confused.


Finally, the men put an end to the prayer. I don't know why the women don't pray. If I knew how, I would. The Rabbi joined his wife at the table, (she: cute in dark wig with 2 little boys). Ned took his saved seat next to the mean lady, and the other husbands, boyfriends arrived to sit next to their women.


Dinner proceeded like this:


pray

wine/coke

pray


bread/hummus/hot red sauce/coleslaw/tomatoes and cucumbers


pray/Rabbi drinks scotch/toasts



soup (some noodles, some vegetables)


sing



pray/Rabbi drinks scotch/toasts


sing



rice, chicken with vegetables, yummy potato thingy


sing


pray/Rabbi drinks scotch/toasts


sing


chocolate cake


pray/Rabbi drinks scotch/toasts


sing




The food was good. I wish I could have understood what the Rabbi was saying. The Chabad food was the same as I'd eaten in other Chabad's around the globe. Ned and I didn't really talk to anybody. One curious young man asked us where we were from: when we said USA, but we live in Inner Mongolia, he looked at us like we were aliens. We definitely felt like aliens there. We were the only Americans (as far as we could tell) and people always wonder about our relationship, and we didn't speak Hebrew, and we live in Inner Mongolia! This is the only time I've ever noticed Ned feeling out of his element. We left right after cake was served, as did over half of the Israelis.



One of the Rabbi's little boys was so cute. He looked about 3 or 4 years old, definitely over 3 because he had his hair cut, he was wearing a kipah, and prayer strings. He had trained him to scream the prayers over the crowd, and the Rabbi would lift him up and the little boy would say, "Baruch!"

then everyone would say, "Baruch!"


he would say, "Adonai!"



then everyone would say "Adonai!"


and the little boy loved to sing and make his hand into a fist like a microphone. It was very charming.



what a trip...to grow up a hassidic little boy in Phuket, Thailand. wow. what an experience for us.


we went home, and the next day I had the music in my head and I sang the whole next day in our little jeep, while eating, and that next evening. The singing at Chabad had infused my soul with music.


Ned said, "Why, you sure are a little canary today."



I didn't know the Hebrew words to the song, but it didn't matter. The melodies had filled me up with joy for the entire next day.




A good, strange experience, yes yes yes.