Nobody else in the family prays like my grandmother. My older brother, Preecha, prays when he wants something or is worried. At those times he comes to the altar to recite his mantras, sometimes holding his Buddha amulets. Preecha has a keen interest in objects that protect him or lend him a magical power. He disappears for hours into my grandmother’s room in search of sacred objects.
Once he heard a rumor that he would be transferred to a remote veterinary station. He was depressed, thinking that his prosperous career would be jeopardized. His wife was nervous that they would be deprived of their comfortable life in the city and placed in some back country station. They consulted with my mother and came up with a solution: to pray together.
My mother, Preecha, and his wife prayed to the local deity, whose reputation has never failed those who believe in his power. My mother said that the deity is very kind and usually does not ask for much in return, but you must seriously and faithfully keep any promises you make to him. If my brother’s wish was granted, he would be obligated to offer fresh flowers and to light one hundred fire crackers.
A few weeks later, his prayer was answered. He wasn’t transferred to the remote station but to a bigger and more prosperous town. Preecha offered a beautiful bouquet to the deity, and the whole village listened to the one hundred fire crackers for almost an hour.
My mother secretly prays before bed. She bows three times on her pillow and recites a shortcut prayer, making quick wishes and then bowing three times: once to the Buddha, once to the Dharma, and once to the Sangha. She often wishes for a good dream. Having a good dream is important, especially on the night before the underground lottery. An old monk from a village temple helps her to interpret her dreams and to translate them into good lottery numbers. The process of getting the numbers right is very sophisticated.
I question my mother sometimes. Isn’t it a de-merit for this monk to buy a lottery ticket? Isn’t he supposed to be renouncing the world? Mother hisses at me and says, “Why are you asking such a question? The old monk is not gambling for profit. He plays just for fun.” There are a lot of people playing the underground lottery. The worst are the police. If there is going to be a raid, it should start at the police station. My mother always justifies her illegal gambling by saying it’s just a little fun.
[Written by Jip back in 2001.]
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
A Hot-Tempered Pig
My grandmother does not remember her birthday but knows that she was born on a night of the wax moon in the year of the pig. The almanac predicted she would be strong-minded with a quick temper. When she told me that she was on her seventh cycle, I calculated that she was born in 1911.
She was the only child in a family that farmed rice. Rice farming was a hard life. Rainfed rice farms without modern irrigation and technology often produced less than enough to feed the family. Yields were left to the mercy of nature and to the farmer's hard work. Still, nobody starved. The village had a system so that those who had a little extra gave to those who could not make ends meet. Children's bones did not stick out.
When she was about ten years old, my grandmother developed a high fever. There was no medical facility in the village, so her parents called on a medicine man. He prepared an herbal
concoction but was unable to get it down her throat. The medicine man went out and found a vulture’s feather. Gently he cleared my grandmother’s mouth and throat with the feather and got her to swallow the medicine and fresh water. She recovered. Often when a child was seriously ill, she would be given away to different parents based on the belief that her spirit might not be compatible with her birth parents. Though my grandmother called the medicine man her adoptive father, she continued to live with her birth parents.
There were a few years of drought, and farming became even more difficult. My grandmother’s family moved south on another year of the pig. They traveled on an ox wagon and settled in Ban Krud near a thick jungle. Deer wandered through the trees, which were as big around as ten joined pairs of hands.
Ban Krud was not a new village. Many families occupied land there and planted coconut groves. My grandmother’s family built a small hut. Five months later, her mother died from dysentery after eating bad food at the temple on the ancestor day. A month later her father got malaria, known as “jungle fever.” Nobody came to help him. For people they knew—the “old people”—villagers would go out at night to fetch rare herbs and send the best herbalist to the sick. But my grandmother’s family were "new people." She watched helplessly as her father hallucinated, seizured and went into a coma overnight. He died the next morning. Within half a year in a new land, my grandmother became an orphan. She was 24.
Left on her own, my grandmother struggled. Married men came after her. The headman of the village visited and didn't want to leave until after dark. She had a hard time getting rid of such men but somehow managed to survive. She got up at dawn, never wasted what she could use and relied on her old hard-dying farming habits.
Maha Budh, the man who became my grandfather, was her distant relative. He was 45 and had been a monk for 25 years. He heard that her parents had died and came down south to check on her. When he saw my grandmother’s situation, he returned to his temple in Petchaburi and disrobed as a monk, then came back to ask for her hand. It was not romance but compassion for her that made him ask for the marriage. He did not want my grandmother to have to face her faith alone.
My grandmother’s life turned around after she became the wife of Maha Budh. She gained respect from the villagers for marrying a former "serious monk." The title "Maha" means “the great.” Maha Budh, or as most villager’s called him, “Teacher Budh,” immediately gained a high status in the village. Having been a monk for many years, he was a literate man. There was no school for girls, but he taught my grandmother to read. He was a man of many talents and fierce discipline and became a reputable healer, fortune teller, and artisan of fine furniture.
My grandmother, Maha Budh Mother, became his assistant. She had her own methods for treating illness. She lit a candle and incense and asked for the power of those who had taught her to heal the sick. After this short prayer, she prepared an herbal concoction. Then she advised the sick to avoid eating beef, egg, shrimp, and crab for the period of time and to stay away from cow dung. Her father had taught her not to charge money to monks and nuns, who renounced the world, but for villagers she charged one baht. She used the baht to buy an offering.
[Jip's grandmother was 90 years old when this piece was written. She lived to be 99.]
She was the only child in a family that farmed rice. Rice farming was a hard life. Rainfed rice farms without modern irrigation and technology often produced less than enough to feed the family. Yields were left to the mercy of nature and to the farmer's hard work. Still, nobody starved. The village had a system so that those who had a little extra gave to those who could not make ends meet. Children's bones did not stick out.
When she was about ten years old, my grandmother developed a high fever. There was no medical facility in the village, so her parents called on a medicine man. He prepared an herbal
concoction but was unable to get it down her throat. The medicine man went out and found a vulture’s feather. Gently he cleared my grandmother’s mouth and throat with the feather and got her to swallow the medicine and fresh water. She recovered. Often when a child was seriously ill, she would be given away to different parents based on the belief that her spirit might not be compatible with her birth parents. Though my grandmother called the medicine man her adoptive father, she continued to live with her birth parents.There were a few years of drought, and farming became even more difficult. My grandmother’s family moved south on another year of the pig. They traveled on an ox wagon and settled in Ban Krud near a thick jungle. Deer wandered through the trees, which were as big around as ten joined pairs of hands.
Ban Krud was not a new village. Many families occupied land there and planted coconut groves. My grandmother’s family built a small hut. Five months later, her mother died from dysentery after eating bad food at the temple on the ancestor day. A month later her father got malaria, known as “jungle fever.” Nobody came to help him. For people they knew—the “old people”—villagers would go out at night to fetch rare herbs and send the best herbalist to the sick. But my grandmother’s family were "new people." She watched helplessly as her father hallucinated, seizured and went into a coma overnight. He died the next morning. Within half a year in a new land, my grandmother became an orphan. She was 24.
Left on her own, my grandmother struggled. Married men came after her. The headman of the village visited and didn't want to leave until after dark. She had a hard time getting rid of such men but somehow managed to survive. She got up at dawn, never wasted what she could use and relied on her old hard-dying farming habits.
Maha Budh, the man who became my grandfather, was her distant relative. He was 45 and had been a monk for 25 years. He heard that her parents had died and came down south to check on her. When he saw my grandmother’s situation, he returned to his temple in Petchaburi and disrobed as a monk, then came back to ask for her hand. It was not romance but compassion for her that made him ask for the marriage. He did not want my grandmother to have to face her faith alone.
My grandmother’s life turned around after she became the wife of Maha Budh. She gained respect from the villagers for marrying a former "serious monk." The title "Maha" means “the great.” Maha Budh, or as most villager’s called him, “Teacher Budh,” immediately gained a high status in the village. Having been a monk for many years, he was a literate man. There was no school for girls, but he taught my grandmother to read. He was a man of many talents and fierce discipline and became a reputable healer, fortune teller, and artisan of fine furniture.
My grandmother, Maha Budh Mother, became his assistant. She had her own methods for treating illness. She lit a candle and incense and asked for the power of those who had taught her to heal the sick. After this short prayer, she prepared an herbal concoction. Then she advised the sick to avoid eating beef, egg, shrimp, and crab for the period of time and to stay away from cow dung. Her father had taught her not to charge money to monks and nuns, who renounced the world, but for villagers she charged one baht. She used the baht to buy an offering.
[Jip's grandmother was 90 years old when this piece was written. She lived to be 99.]
Sunday, October 09, 2011
Curry-Eating Friends
My grandmother lives a clean life. She does not kill any animal—not intentionally—but she is not a vegetarian. She refuses to kill fish that my father brings home from his fishing trips. She also forbids anyone to harm the free-range chickens that she raises for eggs.
One time my father had his drinking buddies over to celebrate the weekend. They wanted to have chicken curry with their whiskey. The men chased the chicken around the house. When my grandmother found out that the party was about to cook her chicken, she said politely to my father’s guests, “If you are going to kill my chicken, just don’t do it in my backyard, okay?” My father’s friends knew what she meant. They took the chicken to a neighbor’s house and brought it back as chicken curry. Grandmother had chicken curry for dinner.
Grandmother is convinced that my father's multiple injuries and deformities are a result of harming animals. In his prime, my father hunted both for fun and for food. When he came home with baskets of fishes, frogs, and snails, my mother and grandmother left them out in a bowl without water. After awhile the fish stopped jumping. Once they became quiet, my mother and grandmother cleaned them. My mother said that they died from a lack of water. Nobody killed them.
One thing my grandmother insists upon is not eating beef. “How can I eat my old friend?” she asked me one day. “Cows are my friends. Without them I would not be here, and you would not be here, either. Cows worked hard on our farm. I talked to them nicely when I wanted them to work. I even saw them cry.”
[Jip wrote this about ten years ago.]
One time my father had his drinking buddies over to celebrate the weekend. They wanted to have chicken curry with their whiskey. The men chased the chicken around the house. When my grandmother found out that the party was about to cook her chicken, she said politely to my father’s guests, “If you are going to kill my chicken, just don’t do it in my backyard, okay?” My father’s friends knew what she meant. They took the chicken to a neighbor’s house and brought it back as chicken curry. Grandmother had chicken curry for dinner.
Grandmother is convinced that my father's multiple injuries and deformities are a result of harming animals. In his prime, my father hunted both for fun and for food. When he came home with baskets of fishes, frogs, and snails, my mother and grandmother left them out in a bowl without water. After awhile the fish stopped jumping. Once they became quiet, my mother and grandmother cleaned them. My mother said that they died from a lack of water. Nobody killed them.
One thing my grandmother insists upon is not eating beef. “How can I eat my old friend?” she asked me one day. “Cows are my friends. Without them I would not be here, and you would not be here, either. Cows worked hard on our farm. I talked to them nicely when I wanted them to work. I even saw them cry.”
[Jip wrote this about ten years ago.]
Friday, October 07, 2011
My Grandmother’s Friends
My grandmother is acquainted with angels and hell guards.
She says we are being watched and monitored carefully. The angels know when we are good, and the hell guards know when we are bad. They work diligently to watch how we think, speak and behave in the world. They are good accountants. They keep our records current.
After we leave this world we may get to meet them. Whether we meet an angel or a guard will depend on how good or bad we are. When we die they know how much merit or de-merit we have made and how that will determine our destiny in the next life. If we have made a lot of merit, we might be born again as an angel. If we have not made enough merit, we will be reborn as a human, or we might go to hell.
The angels are beautiful and immortal. They are free from any kind of suffering. They don’t depend on any worldly goods or sensual pleasures to make them happy. They are free from hunger, pain, and desire. They are "eem thip:" instantly satisfied beings. Just the thought of dessert makes them instantly content. They don’t actually have to eat it.
Hell is a chaotic place. It's noisy, smelly, hot, and crowded. People scream, cry, and curse there. Hell smells like human flesh, blood, sweat, and death. Some people in hell look frightened, sad, or worried. When they were human, these people made de-merits. They are in hell as a consequence of their actions. One man in hell climbs a Ton Ngew tree. His body is soaked with blood and his legs are trapped in the thorns while underneath the tree, a hell guard with a spear keeps pushing him to climb higher. This man committed adultery. A woman in hell cooks herself in boiling water in a big wok. While screaming she says, “I will never lie again.”
My mother’s friends live in this world, not in heaven or hell. She can call on them up for help at any time. Ta woon and the gecko are her good friends. Tawoon is a mean, old ghost-like man with a big belly, red protruding eyes, and yellow rotten teeth. He carries a big machete with him. His favorite food is children’s livers because they are sweet and tender.
Tawoon likes misbehaving children. He likes to show up when we give my mother trouble, either by fighting each other or refusing to do our chores. The words, “Tawoon is coming!” always cripple us. We stop our arguing. We run into the house and find the safest spot to hide. We wait for Tawoon to disappear, hopefully without our livers. Luckily no children in my village have lost their livers to Tawoon. We all survived childhood without being caught. Though I have never encountered him, I have a clear image in my mind. One day one of my playmates pointed at an old man and said, “He is Tawoon.” I said no. The man did not look at all like the Tawoon I have imprinted in my mind.
The gecko is another good friend of my mom. He also enjoys children’s livers. The gecko comes out if you cry too loud and too long. When I cried too much, my mother would say, “Quiet down. My gecko friend might hear and come out to look for your liver.” I would hold my tears and move closer to my mom, hoping that she could protect me from this liver-eating friend.
[Third in a series of Jip's writings from 2001.]
She says we are being watched and monitored carefully. The angels know when we are good, and the hell guards know when we are bad. They work diligently to watch how we think, speak and behave in the world. They are good accountants. They keep our records current.
After we leave this world we may get to meet them. Whether we meet an angel or a guard will depend on how good or bad we are. When we die they know how much merit or de-merit we have made and how that will determine our destiny in the next life. If we have made a lot of merit, we might be born again as an angel. If we have not made enough merit, we will be reborn as a human, or we might go to hell.
The angels are beautiful and immortal. They are free from any kind of suffering. They don’t depend on any worldly goods or sensual pleasures to make them happy. They are free from hunger, pain, and desire. They are "eem thip:" instantly satisfied beings. Just the thought of dessert makes them instantly content. They don’t actually have to eat it. Hell is a chaotic place. It's noisy, smelly, hot, and crowded. People scream, cry, and curse there. Hell smells like human flesh, blood, sweat, and death. Some people in hell look frightened, sad, or worried. When they were human, these people made de-merits. They are in hell as a consequence of their actions. One man in hell climbs a Ton Ngew tree. His body is soaked with blood and his legs are trapped in the thorns while underneath the tree, a hell guard with a spear keeps pushing him to climb higher. This man committed adultery. A woman in hell cooks herself in boiling water in a big wok. While screaming she says, “I will never lie again.”
My mother’s friends live in this world, not in heaven or hell. She can call on them up for help at any time. Ta woon and the gecko are her good friends. Tawoon is a mean, old ghost-like man with a big belly, red protruding eyes, and yellow rotten teeth. He carries a big machete with him. His favorite food is children’s livers because they are sweet and tender.
Tawoon likes misbehaving children. He likes to show up when we give my mother trouble, either by fighting each other or refusing to do our chores. The words, “Tawoon is coming!” always cripple us. We stop our arguing. We run into the house and find the safest spot to hide. We wait for Tawoon to disappear, hopefully without our livers. Luckily no children in my village have lost their livers to Tawoon. We all survived childhood without being caught. Though I have never encountered him, I have a clear image in my mind. One day one of my playmates pointed at an old man and said, “He is Tawoon.” I said no. The man did not look at all like the Tawoon I have imprinted in my mind.
The gecko is another good friend of my mom. He also enjoys children’s livers. The gecko comes out if you cry too loud and too long. When I cried too much, my mother would say, “Quiet down. My gecko friend might hear and come out to look for your liver.” I would hold my tears and move closer to my mom, hoping that she could protect me from this liver-eating friend.
[Third in a series of Jip's writings from 2001.]
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
Grandmother’s Prayer
In front of the altar, my grandmother enters a different world. Here she is in touch with her ancestors and with my dead sister. At the altar, her past, present, and future interweave and become one.
Prayer quiets her mind and brings her tranquility. Devotion is her path. Few paths have been offered to her. As a Buddhist woman of her time, she has learned her place. Women do not have an opportunity to attain higher merit by being ordained. Offerings, prayers, and devotions are the only paths to merit open to my grandmother. She has hosted numerous Tod Kratin, rainy season devotions when Buddhists offer material goods to the monks. She says that Tod Kratin devotions bring powerful merit.
According to my grandmother, there are two kinds of offerings. One kind, like Tod Kratin, is to the monks, who live life to purify their minds. This kind of offering is called “making bunya.” The other kind is made to those with greatest need—the poor—and is known as “giving dhana.” The giver attains a higher merit when making bunya, since monks have highly purified minds.
On her seventh lunar cycle, when she turned eighty-four, Grandmother gave a food dhana to the whole village. There was enough food for 50 people. Grandmother believes that this food dhana will probably ensure her food security in her next life. Monks who receive food cultivate the good deed of giving. They yield good merit to the giver in this life and the next. But Grandmother thought that some of the people in the village might refuse to take the food for fear that they would have an inferior birth to her in their next life. I took the food. I told Grandmother that if I hang out with her in her next life, I am guaranteed not to be hungry.
[Second in a series of writings Jip did around 2001.]
Prayer quiets her mind and brings her tranquility. Devotion is her path. Few paths have been offered to her. As a Buddhist woman of her time, she has learned her place. Women do not have an opportunity to attain higher merit by being ordained. Offerings, prayers, and devotions are the only paths to merit open to my grandmother. She has hosted numerous Tod Kratin, rainy season devotions when Buddhists offer material goods to the monks. She says that Tod Kratin devotions bring powerful merit.
According to my grandmother, there are two kinds of offerings. One kind, like Tod Kratin, is to the monks, who live life to purify their minds. This kind of offering is called “making bunya.” The other kind is made to those with greatest need—the poor—and is known as “giving dhana.” The giver attains a higher merit when making bunya, since monks have highly purified minds.
On her seventh lunar cycle, when she turned eighty-four, Grandmother gave a food dhana to the whole village. There was enough food for 50 people. Grandmother believes that this food dhana will probably ensure her food security in her next life. Monks who receive food cultivate the good deed of giving. They yield good merit to the giver in this life and the next. But Grandmother thought that some of the people in the village might refuse to take the food for fear that they would have an inferior birth to her in their next life. I took the food. I told Grandmother that if I hang out with her in her next life, I am guaranteed not to be hungry.
[Second in a series of writings Jip did around 2001.]
Sunday, October 02, 2011
The Altar Room
Nobody in my family prays like my grandmother. We call the altar corner Grandmother’s corner. The altar is located on the second floor of our Thai house and protected from distracting noises by two tall windows, always closed. My grandmother’s favorite Buddha statue, seated in a lotus position with its eyes closed, is on the top shelf of the altar. A local deity sits on the lower shelf next to a glass bowl containing a bundle of white cloth. Wrapped in the bundle are the remains of our deceased ancestors. Without them, we would not be here. The dark mahogany floor and walls make the altar corner feel subdued, shadowy and peaceful. On the west wall, a picture of a smiling and walking newborn Buddha is high up near the ceiling. On the south wall, lower than the Buddha picture, hangs an antique picture of the first five kings of the Chakri dynasty. Grandmother orders us not to put anything on the east wall. Anything there will face west: the inauspicious direction. West is for the dead.
The pungent smell of incense sweeps through the altar room every evening. A candle flickers. Fresh flowers, usually Philanopsis orchid, stand near the altar. Grandmother sits tall and straight. Her face turns toward the altar. Her eyes close. Her face is serene. She whispers in the ancient Pali—the language of her father, of her husband, of those who have taught her about this life and the next. Over her eighty years she has made this language of prayer her own. She prays for all beings every night. She prays for herself. She prays for the worried, the alienated, and the deceased.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
New Focus for holybasil
Now back in Bangkok, I’m thinking that this blog needs a new focus and new author for a while. Jip wrote some wonderful short pieces about her grandmother and her mom that deserve a wider audience. They were parts of a book she was writing that intended to tell the recent history of Thailand through the stories of three women. I’ll post a dozen or so of the stories over the next few weeks.
The book project gave her great pleasure at a time in Jip’s life, I think it was about 2001, when she decided to cut her research coordinator job to part-time in response to the fatigue that sometimes accompanies MS. She took a trip home from Seattle to see her family, taped several interviews, and transformed what she heard into accounts of grandma and mom’s worldviews. Jip’s own philosophy about things evolved along the way, which you can see in a few of the stories if you’re looking for it.
Later Jip shared the book pieces with my sister Murph, who is a fine writer and editor. By then Jip’s eyesight was giving her lots of trouble. Murph read aloud with Jip, then stitched together a few of the sketches in an order that made sense to both of them. The next several posts will be the result of that team effort from 2004.
The original interview tapes and Jip’s notebooks await my attention. With help from a few people who have expressed interest, and a little luck, maybe in the next couple years I can finish the book she began.
The book project gave her great pleasure at a time in Jip’s life, I think it was about 2001, when she decided to cut her research coordinator job to part-time in response to the fatigue that sometimes accompanies MS. She took a trip home from Seattle to see her family, taped several interviews, and transformed what she heard into accounts of grandma and mom’s worldviews. Jip’s own philosophy about things evolved along the way, which you can see in a few of the stories if you’re looking for it.
Later Jip shared the book pieces with my sister Murph, who is a fine writer and editor. By then Jip’s eyesight was giving her lots of trouble. Murph read aloud with Jip, then stitched together a few of the sketches in an order that made sense to both of them. The next several posts will be the result of that team effort from 2004.
The original interview tapes and Jip’s notebooks await my attention. With help from a few people who have expressed interest, and a little luck, maybe in the next couple years I can finish the book she began.
Monday, September 05, 2011
Sendoffs
On the day after Jip’s funeral, I had longstanding plane reservations for a conference in Atlanta, bookended by stops in Seattle and Michigan to see friends and family. As seemed true throughout the previous week, Jip seemed to be directing my movements and those of so many others. I kept to the original itinerary.
One or two phone calls from Jip’s village somehow sparked a large gathering at a Seattle park on the day after I arrived in town. People from several of her circles there created a lovely memorial event, sharing stories, food, and gorgeous weather. Somewhere along the line a website for donations in her honor was created, benefiting a fine MS Center in Denver whose work we’ve long admired. Our goal is to underwrite one issue of their excellent newsletter.
More remembering happened during the Michigan leg of the trip. The family cottage had hosted one of our three weddings. (Pictured at right is my family on a bluff we call “Jip’s Point” because she liked watching the lake from there). I enjoyed quiet visits with my parents, siblings, and three great college friends who claimed to be in the neighborhood by coincidence. At the place I’ve long considered my pole star, I also felt the strangest emotion of the month: a touch of homesickness for Thailand. I suppose I should listen to that clue as I plan what to do next.
Wherever the road takes us going forward, Jip and I couldn’t have asked for better sendoffs from countless special people this past month.
One or two phone calls from Jip’s village somehow sparked a large gathering at a Seattle park on the day after I arrived in town. People from several of her circles there created a lovely memorial event, sharing stories, food, and gorgeous weather. Somewhere along the line a website for donations in her honor was created, benefiting a fine MS Center in Denver whose work we’ve long admired. Our goal is to underwrite one issue of their excellent newsletter.
More remembering happened during the Michigan leg of the trip. The family cottage had hosted one of our three weddings. (Pictured at right is my family on a bluff we call “Jip’s Point” because she liked watching the lake from there). I enjoyed quiet visits with my parents, siblings, and three great college friends who claimed to be in the neighborhood by coincidence. At the place I’ve long considered my pole star, I also felt the strangest emotion of the month: a touch of homesickness for Thailand. I suppose I should listen to that clue as I plan what to do next.
Wherever the road takes us going forward, Jip and I couldn’t have asked for better sendoffs from countless special people this past month.
Thursday, September 01, 2011
Arriving Home
We went home straight away to Jip’s village for the funeral. Chanting by Buddhist monks began the same night, at the house where she was born, grew up, and was married. On each of the next four nights, the monks returned for another hour’s chanting. A cremation ceremony took place at the nearby temple on the sixth day after she passed away. We scattered her ashes in the Gulf of Thailand.
During the five-hour trip south from Bangkok we narrated each turn so that Jip would know where she was along the way. In the rented van were Jip’s brother, caregivers, uncle, and me, surrounding a coffin that contained her body. Before we arrived home, the well-oiled village event machine had magically set up tents in the front yard. Blankets donated by neighbors were hanging down at the open sides of the tents.
Each evening dozens of people dropped by to make merit by joining the chanting. Each day we received visitors who came down from Bangkok—Jip’s college classmates, my office colleagues, people who decided to skip a Thai Studies conference that had brought them to Bangkok from all over the globe, and even my aunt, who happened to be in the same time zone (Tibet!) when she heard the news. A brigade of volunteer garlic peelers, cooks, and dishwashers kept everyone fed out of a temporary kitchen.
The combination of good friends, relaxed pace, and community ritual was just what Jip would have wished for. Everything fell into place so perfectly that I suspect she had a hand in it.
During the five-hour trip south from Bangkok we narrated each turn so that Jip would know where she was along the way. In the rented van were Jip’s brother, caregivers, uncle, and me, surrounding a coffin that contained her body. Before we arrived home, the well-oiled village event machine had magically set up tents in the front yard. Blankets donated by neighbors were hanging down at the open sides of the tents.
Each evening dozens of people dropped by to make merit by joining the chanting. Each day we received visitors who came down from Bangkok—Jip’s college classmates, my office colleagues, people who decided to skip a Thai Studies conference that had brought them to Bangkok from all over the globe, and even my aunt, who happened to be in the same time zone (Tibet!) when she heard the news. A brigade of volunteer garlic peelers, cooks, and dishwashers kept everyone fed out of a temporary kitchen.
The combination of good friends, relaxed pace, and community ritual was just what Jip would have wished for. Everything fell into place so perfectly that I suspect she had a hand in it.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Some Mixed News About Jip
One night last month Jip went to sleep and didn’t wake up. The story isn’t quite that simple, but basically she made as gentle an exit from this life as anyone could hope for.She spent her last day giggling and smiling. Her passing was sudden. I was beside her at the end, along with a close friend of both of ours who happened to be visiting Bangkok and one of Jip’s caregivers.
The most immediate cause of death was an intestinal blockage. Possibly, the nerves in charge of digestion had been damaged by multiple sclerosis, the disease Jip lived with courageously for twenty years. Those same damaged nerves meant that she didn’t feel any pain.
I miss her, of course. But I’m also happy that this way she is able to avoid further progression of MS, which had been blessedly stable ever since our return to Thailand six years ago. My own grieving began long before that, as I watched the disease take away so many of her abilities. Happily, MS never managed to rob her of the ability to, in her words, “water the seeds of joy.” She continues to inspire us with her wisdom.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Globalization at the Finish Line
Roadraces I’ve run in Bangkok generally attract a fair number of foreigners—never the majority, but higher numbers than their overall percentage of the population. In my memory they’ve rarely won the races, but one or two might have appeared in the top ten.
Until recently. Kenyans now seem to be entering everything from the 5Ks to the marathons here, and essentially creating two separate contests. This past weekend I joined a 10K along with about 700 other runners. At the halfway point in the out-and-back course, the first eight runners were all from Kenya. Nobody else was within 500 meters of them, and no Kenyans appeared to be behind that pack, unless they were behind me, which seems unlikely.
This trend is interesting in light of a recurring theme in the post-election commentary here. Lots of pundits have pointed out that rural Thais are now more likely than ever to have worked outside the country, increasing their sophistication and lessening the chances that they’ll vote in predictable ways. Historically they’ve gotten jobs in Taiwan, Singapore, and the Middle East, but lately the numbers going to Africa are growing.
It hadn’t occurred to me that maybe the same trend is happening in the other direction. What’s your latest globalization indicator?
Until recently. Kenyans now seem to be entering everything from the 5Ks to the marathons here, and essentially creating two separate contests. This past weekend I joined a 10K along with about 700 other runners. At the halfway point in the out-and-back course, the first eight runners were all from Kenya. Nobody else was within 500 meters of them, and no Kenyans appeared to be behind that pack, unless they were behind me, which seems unlikely.
This trend is interesting in light of a recurring theme in the post-election commentary here. Lots of pundits have pointed out that rural Thais are now more likely than ever to have worked outside the country, increasing their sophistication and lessening the chances that they’ll vote in predictable ways. Historically they’ve gotten jobs in Taiwan, Singapore, and the Middle East, but lately the numbers going to Africa are growing.
It hadn’t occurred to me that maybe the same trend is happening in the other direction. What’s your latest globalization indicator?
Thursday, July 07, 2011
What the Thai Election Results Might Mean
Some observers are saying that Thaksin is stronger than ever, or at least in a better position than he would have been at this moment had he not been ousted in a 2006 coup. Parties linked to him have now won several successive elections.
His little sister’s triumph at the polls, while not necessarily a victory for women’s rights (she freely admits she’ll be taking marching orders from her brother), could bode well for reconciliation (whatever that means—the vague term was tossed around in nearly every speech by every candidate during the past couple months). If Thais perceive that a feminine touch at the helm lessens the winner-take-all nature of politics, they may be willing to move forward without requiring retribution. However, Yingluck (Thaksin) and her (his) coalition will control three-fifths of the seats in Parliament, so retribution will be within easy reach. The main check on them will be the generals.
What might be some signs of reconciliation? Tabling discussions of amnesty for Thaksin, for starters. Any moves to bring him home too quickly would be inflammatory. Likewise for any rushed investigations into the violent ending of the 2010 hot season protests. If that violence stays at the front of the discourse, the temptation to repeat it may prove too great.
Investors, who like big wins by pro-business parties, feel this latest election has advanced the prospects of Thailand’s economy. How about Thailand’s democracy? On the face of things, you’d have to say that the one-person, one-vote concept has never been stronger here. The Thai courts, looking out for the interests of the old guard in ways that recall Bush v. Gore in 2000, managed to thwart the popular votes of the last few years by dissolving Thaksin’s party for election irregularities. Now the people’s voices have spoken extra loudly, drawing comparisons, fair or not, to Arab spring.
Yet if recent events lead to Thaksin’s return, and the military decides that Thailand isn’t big enough for the two of them, then probably the country will have taken a step backwards in the democracy department.
His little sister’s triumph at the polls, while not necessarily a victory for women’s rights (she freely admits she’ll be taking marching orders from her brother), could bode well for reconciliation (whatever that means—the vague term was tossed around in nearly every speech by every candidate during the past couple months). If Thais perceive that a feminine touch at the helm lessens the winner-take-all nature of politics, they may be willing to move forward without requiring retribution. However, Yingluck (Thaksin) and her (his) coalition will control three-fifths of the seats in Parliament, so retribution will be within easy reach. The main check on them will be the generals.
What might be some signs of reconciliation? Tabling discussions of amnesty for Thaksin, for starters. Any moves to bring him home too quickly would be inflammatory. Likewise for any rushed investigations into the violent ending of the 2010 hot season protests. If that violence stays at the front of the discourse, the temptation to repeat it may prove too great.
Investors, who like big wins by pro-business parties, feel this latest election has advanced the prospects of Thailand’s economy. How about Thailand’s democracy? On the face of things, you’d have to say that the one-person, one-vote concept has never been stronger here. The Thai courts, looking out for the interests of the old guard in ways that recall Bush v. Gore in 2000, managed to thwart the popular votes of the last few years by dissolving Thaksin’s party for election irregularities. Now the people’s voices have spoken extra loudly, drawing comparisons, fair or not, to Arab spring.
Yet if recent events lead to Thaksin’s return, and the military decides that Thailand isn’t big enough for the two of them, then probably the country will have taken a step backwards in the democracy department.
Monday, June 27, 2011
House Concert
Old college friends of Jip’s drop by now and then. Usually they come as a big group, bringing with them a playful mood that takes everyone back to life in the dorms.
Sometimes Jip is excited and welcoming, other times she surprises everyone by dismissing them after about 15 minutes. (When sent away, we’ve learned to retreat to the kitchen for a few minutes while she adjusts herself to the idea of a visit. After some time alone, she usually wonders aloud, “Where did everybody go?” and then we pick up where we left off.)
Yesterday a gang showed up with a guitar. They stayed most of the afternoon, singing the Thai equivalents of “We Shall Overcome” and other protest songs that Jip and her crowd used to know by heart. She didn’t join in the renditions, but neither did she get tired of hearing them, clapping vigorously after each tune came to an end.
As they tore themselves away, the guests were already planning the next performance/reunion here.
Sometimes Jip is excited and welcoming, other times she surprises everyone by dismissing them after about 15 minutes. (When sent away, we’ve learned to retreat to the kitchen for a few minutes while she adjusts herself to the idea of a visit. After some time alone, she usually wonders aloud, “Where did everybody go?” and then we pick up where we left off.)
Yesterday a gang showed up with a guitar. They stayed most of the afternoon, singing the Thai equivalents of “We Shall Overcome” and other protest songs that Jip and her crowd used to know by heart. She didn’t join in the renditions, but neither did she get tired of hearing them, clapping vigorously after each tune came to an end.As they tore themselves away, the guests were already planning the next performance/reunion here.
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Music Lessons
Being married to me means Jip has put up with a lot over the years. Her latest trial is having to listen as I practice my latest musical instrument, the Thai hammered dulcimer.
The lousy results I’m producing so far stem mostly from my not being able to guess at all what note should come next in a given song. If I had thought about it for even a second, I suppose I would have known that the musical scale here isn’t the same as what I grew up with. To my ear the notes appear to be slightly out of tune, maybe because there are seven of them instead of eight per octave, each exactly the same interval apart. I’m told that only the octave notes can be matched exactly to the Western ones—the others all sound to us round eyes as if they’re in the gap.
As a result music here isn’t written the way I learned it back when I took piano. In fact it’s often not written at all. People learn songs by listening and memorizing and improvising rather than by reading them off of a static piece of paper.
More on this subject is sure to follow as I bluster my way through weekly lessons. Meanwhile, here’s a video of the first tune our teacher assigned us. The anonymous musician plays the way I’m supposed to (but don't yet) sound at this point in my musical journey. Happily, Jip isn't complaining too loudly. She even asks to be serenaded now and then.
The lousy results I’m producing so far stem mostly from my not being able to guess at all what note should come next in a given song. If I had thought about it for even a second, I suppose I would have known that the musical scale here isn’t the same as what I grew up with. To my ear the notes appear to be slightly out of tune, maybe because there are seven of them instead of eight per octave, each exactly the same interval apart. I’m told that only the octave notes can be matched exactly to the Western ones—the others all sound to us round eyes as if they’re in the gap.As a result music here isn’t written the way I learned it back when I took piano. In fact it’s often not written at all. People learn songs by listening and memorizing and improvising rather than by reading them off of a static piece of paper.
More on this subject is sure to follow as I bluster my way through weekly lessons. Meanwhile, here’s a video of the first tune our teacher assigned us. The anonymous musician plays the way I’m supposed to (but don't yet) sound at this point in my musical journey. Happily, Jip isn't complaining too loudly. She even asks to be serenaded now and then.
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