It being a festively traditional time of renewal and reflection, I figured it a good time to give you a brief run down of some of the highs and lows of my two month-long Thai life. Click on the thing you're most interested in and you'll whizz straight there!

Best moments
Best friend
Worst enemies
Best Lego-builder
Best and worst films
Most frustrating things
Best bit of Burmese learned
Worst bit learned
Best and worst journeys
Best Christmas day presents
Best pre-departure gift
Best post-Christmas (January 3rd) present
Best purchase to date
Silliest or most unrealistic things I've done or thought since I've been here
Most surprisingly enjoyable food
Worst food
Best and worst book

Best moments: It's a bit of a privilege but these happen more or less everyday and in ways I couldn't ever predict. Apart from the continually astonishing sheer beauty of this place that always (surprise surprise) hits me right between the eyes, the best bits have been: seeing students really really trying to learn, looking on as students get totally engrossed in an activity (they're quite competitive, it always helps bring a spark or machete fight to proceedings), being helped in whatever I'm doing by passing-by children fasincated by the smallest of tasks I might give them (or just the appearance of this hairy white man), the fact, let's face it, that I'm loving teaching and my gradual realisation that I might be okay at it, or maybe debating with the pre-intermediate students for nigh on an hour in an attempt to convince them to teach the elementary lot while I am out of the camp so their learning doesn't come to an abrupt hiatus the moment I'm gone - and in doing so battling against years of rote-learned 'teacher-is-the-knower-and-giver-of-truth' propaganda - and ultimately managing to win out and maybe convince some that they have the power (and Skeletor can be defeated - not sure about Mum-Ra though) to control their own learning! Or maybe for a sometime shy Ben (indeed, ask my mum (that's mum, not Mum-Ra the saliva-monster from the Thundercats)) the best thing has been just getting on with people okay and making good friends when living in a world far from home.

Best friend: As ever in this Ben-life I don't really have one single individual who ticks this box. From the old man who takes a detour to come chat with me as I lesson plan in the midday sun and Oo Ni Kay and Htwe Yee the two young teachers I am teaching for 4-6 hours each day in preparation for a scholarship in the UK, through to the enthusiasm and friendliness of the students in my two big classes and the Yaung Ni Oo students themselves - everyone is interesting and unique, complete and replete with humanoid intricacies, quirks and isms. I reckon its these dingly-dangly tit-bits that make everyone everywhere kinda similar, and ultimately make pedestals obsolete, despite our predilections for them. Alas there just isn't enough time to visit and speak with everybody I'd like to, but I do get enough time to see many people shine through themselves and past our first more inhibited encounters. What's for certain is that any 'small-me-in-big-new-world' loneliness I encountered early on is now gone. Not doing the whistle-stop thing means I have (baby) roots, good friends and so many welcoming welcomes: the loneliness of the long-distance traveller, silently lurking behind each new twist in a far-from-home adventure, is blowing in someone else's wind (pooo-eeee, what a pong!). Next month I'll rat-a-tat-type some words about the folks here; barring wholly unexpected (mis-)adventure, this me me me thing will take a break.

Worst enemies: An almighty list. Certainly the dried fish. Definitely the Paste. Surely the mosquitoes. No humanoids as yet, though the moment I discovered this month's diary entries (resplendent in their terminal completeness) had all been wiped from the computer by the office workers here after 7 hours hard typin' on the only day per month I get to write, thus forcing me into a one-day 11-hour bus-journeying mad shopping dash to Chiang Mai and back in a day so I could yet publish some more scholarly thoughts the next day brought me close to adding a few manly names to the list. Anyway, atop this evil-doer list sits BEEBEETLE. BEEBEETLE is big. BEEBEETLE is black. BEEBEETLE buzzes. BEEBEETLE is a flying bee (hold on, don't they all do that?) with reinforced steel skeleton that manages to instil in an evermore jungle-hardened Ben the fear of, er, BEEBEETLE (for the BEEBEETLE fear is like no other). BEEBEETLE comes a buzzin' when dusk brings the illumination of electric light. BEEBEETLE forces me into panic-stricken dives for the relative comfort of my mosquito net. BEEBEETLE still manages to terrorise through the evening, dive-bombing this thin sheath at its leisure until the halogen's goodbye brings conscious relief (but unconscious terror, for where has BEEBEETLE gone now?). I've refused to come out until the camp authorities remove all 60,000 of them from my section.

Best Lego-builder: 100 bricks. That's all I have, all I bought, all I brought to Mae La Ou. But to 'saya' (teacher) Aung Soe - and everyone in the camp who has similarly laid eyes and hands on this wondrous Danish invention - they're a new world of challenge, of industrious, creative endeavour, of imagination and freedom. AS, commandeering for a week what was bought originally for teaching aid purposes (each brick representing a word type etc), has already produced two wonders - first a hut (scarily accurate), then a train. I think it's got a little easier now as I reminded him he doesn't need to use all the bricks (he took a long while to fit all of them into the building of the huttress) - indeed for everyone the realisation that 'there are no rules' is a delight to behold, and must lie at the heart of why Lego is just so fantastic a toy. Anyway, onto the train - "how long did I take to build?" I asked. "Not long time" came the reply. This meant three hours - but total effort expended was more: "Most time thinking time, not building time". Yes, saya Aung Soe had spent ten hours thinking about how to build a train using the available bricks before he began actually building. If there were Lego-building world championships, he would win (it pains me to say, maybe I'd do well in the speed-building contest). Please, if anyone is coming out this way or is thinking about it, bring a bucket of Lego in each hand, it will be used until fingers can build no more.

Best and worst films (yes they have one 20-inch TV which sees hundreds of eager bodies squash round it on special occasions out on the helicopter landing site): The best - White Chicks. Two hours of political incorrectness and weird editing made giggle-ribbing hilarious as I sat watching dance floor breakin', changing room squeezin' and lavatory gaseous exchangin' through my anti-mosquito Tardis: the Burmese revolutionaries here have surely been thoroughly culturally enriched by the experience. The worst (as voted for by my three-teacher accompaniment at the time) - Farenheit 9/11. People view mister Bush in contrasting ways in the camp - some as liberator who could maybe one day send troops to stand side by side with Burma's revolutionary forces and finally oust the regime from power. Others (thankfully so as to stimulate debate on such an important topic if nothing more) see the opposite. But amongst the three the film was universally panned - ejected long before reaching its conclusion. I'm still trying to work out if this is because they disagreed with its argument, they couldn't follow its without-subtitled narration, they were unused to the graphic real-life violence on the screen, or they just wanted to watch Van Helsing the Historic Vampire Slayer more.

Most frustrating things: I should preface this with something along the lines of 'good always comes from bad' but there remain are a few gripes, namely (a) my inability to move out of Section 13 because of the security raisins* - they put a circle of them around the section so if I ever tried to set foot elsewhere I would slip on this impervious barrier; (b) the singing in the camp - on the one hand brilliant, refreshing and absorbing, on the other (noise-polluted) hand not the thing you want to be hearing at two in the morning performed in a heart-renderingly drunken fashion when you've got to be up at four-thirty; (c) my lack of involvement in any kind of decision-making processes - especially when the decisions are made about me. I'm looked up as if I'm some super-hero dude most of the time who knows it all (frustrating enough, though nobody's fault) yet when it comes to decisions it seems I'm not consulted at all. Grrrrr grrrr grrrrr (like gentle Ben the big bear used to grrrrr. That's it.). (Actually Katie my only 'western' friend out here who has visited the camp twice did say that this is more than likely because they don't think you'd be interested in coming along to meetings of this kind. I will resolve to broadcast my interest from here on in.) Lastly there's (d), my silky sleeping bag. It's zip is broken, and it spends each night steadfastly repelling the blankets I embezzle around my rapidly cooling body, causing the nightly freezing of all essential extremities. Darn the Norwegians and their Ajungilaks, I say.

*see 'Happy Mae La Ou Camper' for what this really means - but it's not that exciting.

Best bit of Burmese learned: 'Ein tha Thwa meh' - 'I'm going to the toilet'. I like to chant this rhythmically at inopportune moments, such as when I'm squatting over my dinner.

Worst bit learned: 'Pho Htaung'. Yes it's my name. Yes it's an honour to have been bestowed with such a title. Yes I know it's wrong to say it's a bad thing. But the problem's all in the pronunciation. Something very, very similar-sounding (kids look away now) is Burmese for (I said look away) 'I have an erection' (look, just go and ask mum about it). Each day, when I'm faced with yet another honourable introduction, I can but smile meekly and, being proudly hounded to introduce my prestigious Burmese name, just end up bleating out the words in a red-flush sweaty panic (accompanied by mild but involuntary crotchal expansion). Unfortunate.

Best and worst journeys: The 'buscar' journeys are social extravaganzas through mountain passes, the moped rides buttock-clenching soil-the-seat-thrills through congested streets. But prize for best and worst journey goes that navigated from Mae Sariang to Mae La Ou. Worst, the painful but oh so memorable malaria-evacuation-by-rubbish-pick-up: a cold, blood-clotting test of thumping endurance. Best, the return. Six eager faces jumped onto the top/back of a camp-destined pick-up, heavily laden with essentials - eggs, rice, vegetables, the odd TV and a leaking drum of petrol which seemed to worry the driver and I a lot more than anyone else. Donning hats and jumpers, the three men sat up front and the women (in thin cotton) sheltered behind as the pick-up tore off through the morning rice-paddies, the burning palm-tree-lined plains of Mae Sariang. The one five-year old amongst us - after a brave start up front in just a dirty t-shirt - was busy sheltering under his mom's skirt. The wind cajoled, buffeted and froze, and smiles of mutual challenge were shared: I could not and would not stop smiling (if it wasn't a new Macdonald's catchphrase I'd say 'I'm loving it' would fit just right). And the smiles and inner chuckling got even wider and laughter louder as we hit the mountain pass which would wind us up and down and through to the camp. Climbing up, I could do nothing but gasp as I saw my first ever view of the Salween river and - across the other side maybe two hundred metres away - Burma. Awesome. Dukes-of-hazard-style we sped on parallel to this mystery, a trail of dust spreading long into the distance and all over our cowering, sheltering selves. Legs were crushed against steel frames, eggs cracked under pressure from baggage, bums were thrown apart from wooden perches, bums were smashed down seconds later (indeed my little gluteus maximus' seemed to be the most vertically malleable, to the great delight of the ladies behind), the kid tried in vein (and to everyone's great amusement) to stand up and piss over the side of the truck as it relentlessly ploughed through every twist, turn and hairpin of the beautiful mountain route. I could not stop smiling the whole way because this was where it was at.

Best Christmas day presents: (1) "Hark! …it's …it's peanut butter!" went the cry. Off went the lid. In went the thumb (of my right hand, left reserved for other less pleasant brown handicrafts). Down the hatch went the crunchy brown nectar by the thumbful. Our son pat couldn't be happier in that moment of unabashed heaven. (2) A rope. Made of plastic (so, like, is it still called a rope?). Used for skipping. I call it my skipping plastic. …In a busy refugee camp / Section 13-bound Pho Htaung life exercise can be a thing of rarity, so with this gem in my possession I have since been turning the handles full pelt in my lunchtime breaks between lessons: this really makes me happy (though it does tend to reinforce all the 'weirdo foreigners with off-the-wall habits' stereotypes which abound here). The usual routine is: the heart pumps, my body jumps, my big feet lump, the rope gets caught on them like a chump, I fall over with a bump. You know sometimes in this place, being so heffer-like amid the Burmese's neat and nimble bodies, I feel like such a frump. Thanks go to Katie for both presents.

Best pre-departure gift: A supply of clean water is often not the most readily available critical item to a busy Pho Htaung. Thus, first prize here goes to my daily stalwart Nalgene (or Nal for short), a supposedly 'unbreakable' drinks bottle from America (why this kind of claim makes one immediately want to break it, I am not sure). Every day Nal bravely dips himself into steaming (I wouldn't trust it if it wasn't) boiling water, collecting the liquid life for the day ahead. All day he guards it from harmful bugs, and serves the nectar up cool, crisp and refreshing to a needy teacher. Thank goodness the Nal-giver (thank you) didn't take favourably to his dark-blue colour, for Nal has become my bosom buddy, dancing his dangley dance by my side.

Best post-Christmas (January 3rd) present: The age old tradition - if a son is to receive just one present at Christmas time no matter where he should be, underwear shall be it - came true for me this year, and thankfully so (NB if socks were not wholly redundant here I'm sure some would have found their way to me too). Amidst my smiles as I unwrapped one secret tissue-paper-wrapped present after another was a nagging nervousness because I knew I had asked for pants, was extremely self-conscious about this, and the ten or so people before me - intently watching my every unwrapping move - would discover the present-giving was more an emergency pant-drop from mother to son. In the end, I needn't have worried, managing to conceal the soft mad-made garments at the bottom of the tissue paper chaos. Their secret was revealed to me in fuller glory only later that evening when their calming textures took hold of my needy nether region. Comfortable and true (and used daily), I couldn't have wished for a better present. Thanks, pants. Thanks, Mum!

Best purchase to date: Fake Everton football shirt, Chiang Mai, 160 baht. My saving grace, this one top has taken the place of four of the wettest, grimiest and most sweat-inducing Primark-procured white cotton t-shirts, thank good loch ness. Worn daily, it is easy to wash, drip-dries upon my body in the midday sun, and is a pure delight amidst the unrelenting heat of the day.

Best decision-y type things I've made: (1) to become a teacher (thanks coach, this set in motion the wheels which whisked me to where I am now); (2) to take a year out before starting my PGCE (thanks what I thought was a disastrous teacher training interview, you made me make an important phone call and make it fast); (3) to do a CELTA course over the summer - freakily scarey but the site of much UHU group bonding and one of the most memorable experiences of last year (bar boats, Funkathons, Glastonburys, stripping and waiting, parties, Thailands…); (4) to have had a fundraising do before I came (see diary entry 'the party'); and (5) to have got my act together to get out here (thanks to many, especially members of my tree). Time will tell whether my decision to attempt to teach my students a diet of skills (how to go about taking on that thing called learning) in addition to the usual English language knowledge will pay off… I hope once Pho Htaung is a distant memory their ability to speak and learn English is not.

Silliest or most unrealistic things I've done or thought since I've been here, or in life generally (you are free to guess the result): "I think I'll sleep rough…" "I'll wake up at four o'clock every morning…" "I'm going to eat everything that is put before me…". "I know, I'll live in a shed from now on…". "I'll save thirty baht by walking through Chaing Mai with these six bagfuls of heavy shopping in the middle of the day - why, I'll even get a suntan at the same time…". "I'll just give this little mosquito bite a quick scratch, and that'll be that…" "Why would I need to bring toilet paper, they're bound to have plenty…" "I'll pack that video camera battery later when everything else is sorted, I won't forget it, it's the most important thing I'm taking to Thailand…". "I'll buy eight white t-shirts from Primark - they'll be cheap and they're sure to see me through the year ahead…". "If I just hand the nice Thai policeman my British passport, that'll bring everything to a swift and happy conclusion…" "I know, I'll fly by Kuwait Air" (you know it was actually pretty good, especially the pan-pipes - that's what the wings are made of. Ingenious and harmonious.)

Most surprisingly enjoyable food: Considering my pre-Thailand vegetarianism and severe hatred of most things fishy, I've taken quite a shine to the delicacy of the camp: sardines. Tinned or even better (though rarer) fresh, they are expensive, not around much, and are considered highly desirable. Mix these with the morning staple yellow bean soup, together with a heap of rice, and you're in some great gastronomic hinterland. Even without the sardines this daily morning meal is looked forward to in a way not seen in England. I remember reading an autobiography by someone famous but dead which talked about how in times when you have little choice you come to appreciate what you do have, come to relish it. I agree.
While I'm here, Bu Thee Jor (fried Gourd) is also a favourite, and today's curried pig entrails weren't too bad either, through a little random in texture. Anything with tomatoes in is also a joy (bar The Paste - see below).

Worst food: Anything with the word fish in it (bar the above and bar the awesomely delicate fresh fish we had yesterday cooked over an open fire) brings me out in a cold (and guilt-laden) sweat - its arrival at the dinner floor is usually greeted with much happiness and rancour as to who will consume its pleasures first. Dried miscellaneous fish and fish paste (hence forth known as The Paste) are the worst culprits - a strength overbearing, a taste no amount of nose-blocking can do away with. The miscellany hard, crunchy and obtuse, The Paste willing to transform any dish to some galling test of mental strength. Here I think I'm being offensive - for while I reckon it's okay and perfectly natural to have likes and dislikes in this life, the fish I describe here is perhaps the only good source of protein most people can get (if any): most cannot afford my flippancy: I should always (and to be honest do usually) try the fish whenever offered.

Best and worst book: Here's another 'kids look away' warning. It's not quite up to the standard set by Tim and Beverley Le Hay's masterly book (discovered and captured by a friend on another visit to a different country) about how members of a particular religious sect should go about making love (or else go to hell… use a tongue for things and you're hell-bound, wouldn't you know? I'm having extreme difficulty speaking at the moment, have a try without using your big flappy thing.) - but it sure comes close. 'Dating With Confidence' is another American title given to me by one twenty-something from the camp wishing me to translate its golden inner secrets, for him to then translate onto the busy Mae La Ou dating (read 'marriage') circuit. Reading in the quiet of my room, I had a good hearty laugh at its contents, kept the book for reference purposes for what must've been just a few days, and then thought it best if I returned the title to its owner for want of people considering this to be my particular book (of all the things). The young lad who gave me the book is a great bloke, and, although hilarity aside it did offer some useful hints in a high-pressure grow-up world, they might not have been best acted upon in Mae La Ou: not too many cinemas to take your girl - how it got in is anyone's guess (wish I hadn't kept the receipt now). Interest in books like these, the frequency of the subject of marriage and pregnancy, and talks with Katie have got me thinking about how the gender relations (oops, development studies speak - sorry) of coupling work here. One thing is for sure, sex education or anything like it is not on any curriculum, it's the men who hold all the (mis?)information, the women who seem to hold all the babies. One young mum's English homework told of her wish to go to university to study, but how was this possible with her burgeoning responsibilities and a husband usually away supporting the armed resistance?