Mango Plumpness

Some people tell me I’m looking skinny. I haven’t really noticed, but I believe them. Eating rice instead of pasta, and walking around in 100 degree heat, would do it to anyone. By the time May is over, though, I expect I’ll be back at my American weight. Why? It’s mango season.

In these parts, April is not only the peak month for outside temperature, but also for the world’s most consumed and number one selling fruit. And we’re not talking about that mushy, stringy, been-in-a-refrigerated-truck-for-the-last-three-weeks-since-it-was-plucked-too-early-off-the-tree-in-Mexico mango. Over here, the mango is as close as a fruit gets to being ice cream. You don’t even have to chew. It goes down that easy.

What’s more, the ripe mango in Thailand often gets served with a wicked accompaniment of sticky rice, coconut milk, sugar and salt. This combination has been known to add more spare tires to more foreigners’ middles than the all-you-can-eat cafeterias add pounds to unsuspecting freshmen during their first semester at college.

So fear not. At my current rate of one plate of “khao-niao-mamuang” per day, being skinny is the least of my worries. Here’s a recipe. To make it really authentic, toast up some sesame seeds and sprinkle those on top.

Just Say No to Stuff

If you’re looking for a way to clear out some clutter from wherever you live, I recommend moving abroad. We tossed and tossed.

Even now, nearly nine months since we arrived, the closets in our very airy apartment are nearly empty. Of course we could fill them up again. But having made several hard choices while purging in Seattle, I doubt we will.

For instance, I spent hours sorting through the filing cabinet, because I was sure that the one piece of paper we needed would be the one I discarded. Yet I have hardly touched what I kept.

And shoes—I recalled that quality shoes would be hard to find here. So I brought along several pair. Now I only wear two of them regularly. The other day I bought some fine flip flops (75 cents), which have become my favorites.

Any regrets? I’ve yet to see a big wok I like as well as the seasoned old friend that went byebye at our yard sale. But to replace that item, we’ve come to the right continent.

Buyin’ and Sellin’ in the ’hood; or, What the Neighbors Say – Part Three

Our soi is more residential than most, but it does have a restaurant or two along its length, as well as a failed nightclub and a thriving brothel. It’s only as I near the main drag that I begin to hear buses and jackhammers and other such city sounds. Otherwise, about the loudest noise we hear at home is the daily broadcast from loudspeakers of the national anthem, at 8am and 6pm.

The main street caters to foreigners of all stripes. Signs outside businesses are more likely to be written in English, Korean, or Japanese than in Thai. Within a ten-minute walk from home, I can find restaurants featuring at least two dozen cuisines. I could buy a new Volvo sedan or a Ford pickup. In the evenings, the sidewalks fill up with vendors hawking everything from fake Rolexes to silk shirts. Sometimes an elephant lumbers through the chaos, led by men selling what they claim is elephant food.

Generally my trips out to the road are for groceries or my own meals. I do the shopping at one of two supermarkets. The aisles in larger one would look familiar to most American shoppers—peanut butter, corn flakes, soy sauce—the main differences being brand names and a few categories that aren’t represented in the States. (Twenty feet of shelf space is devoted to “essence of chicken,” which comes in several flavors, including chocolate.)

That supermarket occupies the basement of a large department store. Next door is a five-star hotel. Across the road is the smaller supermarket, dominated by bargains and more everyday items (holy basil, whiskey, 10-kg. sacks of rice, fish sauce, that kind of thing). Throw in storefronts offering foot massages, lattes, prescription drugs (without a prescription!), and you kind of get the picture.

Buyin’ and Sellin’ in the ’hood; or, What the Neighbors Say – Part Two

All of this commerce happens in a lane that is too narrow for cars to pass each other. The fruit guy parks at a spot where others can get around him by swerving into a driveway. The lane has five driveways. Two lead into apartment buildings, while three are blocked by tall gates, announcing and gilding the fancy homes behind.

In our part of Bangkok these homes are likely to be owned by wealthy Indians. I imagine the music wafting through our windows from neighbors could just as easily be heard in Delhi or Mumbai. Kids playing soccer or lighting firecrackers in the courtyard of the apartment across the lane are speaking English with an accent from the subcontinent.

Weekday mornings, vans with uniformed drivers pick up kids from the lane and whisk them off to various private international schools. From our building, all the kids go to the Lycée Français International de Bangkok. Once they get home in the afternoon, we typically hear French spoken by the side of the pool.

The lane leads to a slightly wider street, known as a “soi,” where the buying and selling is still mostly outdoors, but more stationary. For instance, just beyond the corner are a stand selling curries, a man treadling a sewing machine, and a woman creating caffeine drinks of various colors and temperatures. All of these businesses disappear after dark. The food salespeople pack up their carts and roll them away, while the tailor covers his sewing machine with a tarp and chains it to a wall.

Buyin’ and Sellin’ in the ’hood; or, What the Neighbors Say – Part One

This may help picture where Jip and I live.

At 6am we hear a bicycle horn. It’s the scrap guy. He wants people to know he’s buying. If you’re selling, he’ll be back by in a few minutes. Formal recycling programs aren’t necessary here. One set of people look through the trash after dark, hoping for treasures; another set comes by during the day, offering a small sum for slightly higher-quality junk.

An hour later, the broom guy rides by. He too is on a bicycle, which like the scrap guy’s is specially fitted with accessories. More than fifty brooms, dustbins, and various other house wares stick up and lean out, flagpole style, from various slots in the broom guy’s rig. The net effect is of a moving brown jungle. From the middle of the jungle, the broom guy peers out, chants the names of his products, and attempts to steer. I assume there are accidents.

Later in the morning, and sometimes again before sundown, the fruit guy shows up. In our neighborhood the fruit guy is really two people. One drives the truck, narrating the menu and prices over a loudspeaker. The other sits in the back, surrounded by mounds of mangoes, oranges, guavas, pomelos, and whatever else is in season.

Out of Dodge

Last week’s lottery draw came and went, and we are no richer. At least not cash-richer. But Jip and I have taken a fine outing to the countryside, to a town where she used to work, and where our friend Therese has a little house.

We absorbed the kind of quiet that seems to exist only on farms and along vacant stretches of road. Mango trees rustled. Swallows dipped. Chao, who came along for the daytrip, snapped some photos.

Therese and a few other familiar faces spent much of the afternoon in hammocks. Folks who work the nearby rice fields dropped by. We didn’t really DO anything, but somehow the time passed quickly. That’s often how it is in Thailand, I find.

On the way home, Jip cracked jokes about things that on a different day could just as easily have come out as complaints. Watching her giggle as she reclined in the van, I felt very well-to-do.

My Lucky Day

A bird pooped on me as I walked under an electric wire. My teacher remarked on it (no hiding the green blot on my white shirt) at my early morning language lesson. He said for Thai people, being bombed in that way counts as good luck. He urged me to take advantage of the omen by playing the lottery.

The secretary at work agreed wholeheartedly, and immediately wanted to know the species. When I told her “pigeon,” she looked it up on a website that assigns numbers to every kind of animal or dream you can imagine. Pigeons turn out to be associated with “66.” She told me to choose a ticket ending with those two digits.

When I didn’t head out the door right away, she sent somebody after me: “I heard about your happy accident this morning, and I’m going out anyway in a few minutes—would you like me to buy that ticket for you?” I think they were both afraid that I wouldn’t really do it, or that I’d wait a day, meaning that some of the luck would have worn off.

So I’m now the proud holder of ticket xxxxxxxxxx66. Not only that, lots of colleagues have told me that they heard about my good fortune, and they plan to piggyback on it by picking the same number. If it gets pulled out of the hat next week on the day of the drawing, you can bet the Thai Audubon Society is going to end up with a big donation!

Five-star Service

Jip spent a couple nights in the hospital thanks to low sodium, an old nemesis. This was discouraging to me, because she’d been doing so well physically here, and because I thought we had seen the last of that problem. It didn’t seem to bother her, though. And the care we got at a private hospital in Bangkok was amazing.

It was like an elegant hotel: picture windows looking out on a gorgeous courtyard, body gel and fancy shampoo in the bathroom, delicious food available anytime from an ala carte menu. For patients’ relatives there was a sink in the room for washing dishes, and high speed internet access in the lobby. Nearly everyone spoke English.

The nurses didn’t wake us up four times per night to take blood pressure. They also hit the vein on the first try, and they seemed to already know what we had told their colleagues on the previous shift. We saw firsthand why “medical tourists” are coming to Thailand for health care.

It turns out that one of our caregivers has worked in several Thai hospitals. So when she showed up to help us check out, she knew a few tricks that helped make things even smoother. Jip now appears to be back to normal. When we got home she was all smiles, ready to start in again on her routine.

Back to the Opera

Before we moved here, I did some Googling to discover which of my American addictions I would be able to indulge in Bangkok. While “Bangkok + baseball” yielded nothing promising, “Bangkok + soccer” overwhelmed me with options. The big surprise, though, was “Bangkok + opera.”

I found out that not only does Thailand have a fine opera company, but that it had plans to put on the first opera in Wagner’s Ring cycle, “Das Rheingold.” Recently those plans became reality, and I had a front row balcony seat.

Wagner would have approved. Bangkok Opera is the real deal. The director’s local touches reminded me of the way Seattle Opera’s director made this timeless tale seem like a homegrown product.

The story kicked off with Valkyrie ballerinas dressed in classical Thai gowns. Wotan lived in a Thai-style house. Loge showed up wearing Bermuda shorts and flip flops. Erda had several arms, like a Hindu deity. And when the gods marched up the rainbow bridge at the end, Valhalla looked remarkably like the Bangkok skyline.

The hall was far from sold out (thought the princess showed up again), so it may be tough to convince the board that Bangkok Opera should mount the rest of the cycle. But I can dream. This company has the right stuff.

Sport Day

How about this for a fine day on the job: The office is locked. Email is on hold. Everyone meets on the basketball court that is part of the Ministry of Public Health’s sports complex, dressed in one of four different colors. The randomly assigned teams have been meeting at lunch over the previous few days, working out their cheerleading routines.

In between the final rounds of the basketball, chairball, and “futsol” (6-a-side soccer) competitions—badminton, pingpong, and petanque were settled earlier—various party games are quickly pulled together. And we’re not just talking about tug-of-war and egg-in-a-spoon races.

There’s also the contest to see who can assemble a group whose collective weight comes closest to 550kg. Nobody seems to mind stepping on a scale in public and having their weight broadcast to the crowd. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised--people here freely ask about age and salary. They seem surprised when I tell them that Americans routinely lie about all three of these subjects.

Lunch for 200 is catered. The IT department screens a highlight video it has put together from the preliminary rounds. At 4pm, when the dust from the final game has settled, and the last song has been sung, the director presents trophies to each of the teams, thus putting to rest all of the boasting that has preceded this day. Not bad for government work!


(P.S. If you look closely at the photo, you’ll see that my earlier request, for a goal scorer to be sent this way, was answered! Let’s hope I can get a few more for my regular weekend team.)

Updates

Here is the rest of the story about a few things mentioned here recently:

• My favorite tree species, which blooms in Seattle for about a month, hasn’t stopped blooming here at our apartment since we arrived over six months ago. It’s been joined by several purple orchids, which hang down from a trellis outside the entrance. We are lucky to live in such a nice building.

• Back in September, after seeing her at the opera, I wrote that I wouldn’t be surprised to run into the princess again. It didn’t take long. She showed up at a conference I attended last month about digital libraries. The Thai Library Association is under royal patronage, and she is the designated royal. Lots of pomp and cameras … very fun to watch.

• The same two women still take care of Jip. I had thought when we arrived that turnover might be high, because they would never really get to know her, at least not in the way her Seattle caregivers did. But perhaps enough of the wit and sparkle still shines through, despite the increased communication difficulties.

• At mid season the BC Casuals are 2-10, good for 12th place in our 14-team soccer league. If you know any goal scorers, please send them our way.

The Rest of the Story

I don’t know whether this has ever happened to you: something triggers an interest in those old stories that a favorite aunt has been telling you all your life… but then when you get around to asking her for more details, you discover that the opportunity has passed, because she isn’t quite up to it any more?

That’s kind of how it is with Jip these days. When people bring up a subject she knows lots about—either to make conversation, or because they really are curious to know more—she usually doesn’t feel like sustaining it. She still knows all the details, but she’d rather talk about what’s for dinner or when we are going to do something about the dust in the apartment. Her focus has narrowed to the here and now.

In Chiang Mai, my former teacher toured me around a cool temple and monastery known as Wat Umong. Its forest setting made me think Jip would like it there. I then met a guy for dinner who remembered Jip showing him that temple several years back, when he had been new in town. He even said it was affiliated with a school of meditation teaching that I knew she was once interested in.

I couldn’t wait to ask Jip more about the place when I got back to Bangkok. It had all the ingredients for a fun chat—distant past, happy affiliations, high significance and appeal. But she dropped it like a stone. No longer on her radar screen.

The effect of this disease on her speech is an even bigger obstacle to communicating with Jip. Often her words all run together, or her voice rises and falls like the sound of a car that won’t start. At this point I get about ten percent of what she says … and I do as well as anyone.

So I rely on facial expression for much of my understanding. (Her great smile means so much more to me nowadays than ever before.) That’s why when I pray for miracles, I no longer pray for Jip’s eyes or legs to work again. I would just love to be able to hear the rest of the story.

Chiang Mai Revisited

I took another trip north, to continue scouting around, in case we move there some day. The small town connections in Chiang Mai surfaced again. This time I called on a former Thai language teacher of mine, who has returned there recently.

As we were sitting on her porch, peeling oranges and generally passing a lazy afternoon, I happened to mention the cat guy. My teacher’s husband said, "Oh, Ed! I haven't seen him for years! Let's all go out to dinner with him tonight." Ed suggested, as we worked our way through plates of delicious shrimp and Thai vegetables, that the guy I should really hook up with is his friend Christopher. He takes care of a handicapped brother somewhere on the outskirts of the city.

The next morning Ed drove me to Christopher's house, which turned out to be a healing center, presided over by Christopher's wife Homprang. She teaches about massage, herbs, and various other traditional Thai treatments. Christopher’s brother requires round-the-clock care, which Christopher hires from a nearby rehab hospital.

Even without knowing much about her disease, Christopher and Homprang had good ideas about what might help Jip. They also knew, without my having to explain, what it’s like to be Jip’s husband at this stage.

Afterward I walked around the hospital grounds, which were full of the biggest trees I've seen in Thailand. Lovely people smiled from every bend in the road that circles the little island on which the hospital is built. I’d been up north less than 24 hours, and already it was starting to feel like home.

Merry and Happy

Our holidays were low key—the real festival was a couple weeks before, when we traveled down to Jip’s village. Over Christmas, we had few visitors or calls, but somehow it felt just right. The days around January 1st are the ones people in Bangkok look forward to. It seemed as if half the city headed back to their home province, or to the beach, or something.

My friend Davin, who lives in Beijing, came through on a vacation with his family. They’re used to traveling in Asia, so this town isn’t exotic for them. We took my favorite bike ride and went out for a couple of fun meals. I especially liked being around the kids, listening to them switch seamlessly between English and Mandarin.

One of Jip’s nursing school classmates dropped by. As a physical therapist, he wanted to see how she moves. They giggled their way through a few new exercise routines that I hope will help her become even stronger.

In general Jip has maintained her physical abilities since we arrived here. There’s still no sign of heat affecting her negatively, as many Seattle docs worried that it would. (We were also told that the Thai health care system wouldn’t know what to do with her, which has proved wrong. How easy it is to underestimate a system that one has no experience with!)