Language Re-Learning in Europe

Now and then in Thailand someone asks if I can speak French. I answer, “Oui,” and then manage one or two reasonably understandable sentences before Thai starts pouring out. It’s as if the lobe of the brain where my college French lives has been overwritten by the more recent efforts to learn a new language.

Thai is now the default second. Kick-starting the former tongues requires lots of concentration. These past two weeks, luxuriating in France and Spain with three separate batches of close pals, I was never sure what was going to flow from my mouth. (photo: John Beach)

It was surprising how quickly the old vocabulary flooded back. Most everything I read on signs in France made sense to me, and when shopkeepers addressed me I always knew what they were talking about. Whether or not I could reply quickly was another story, but with each passing hour I got faster—to the point where I sometimes asked myself how I would have said the same thing in Thai.

Of course I never got beyond a paragraph or two before I started giggling. French seemed like a play language, something designed for Barbie dolls or tea parties. I knew I wouldn’t need to use it for long, so I felt it was fair to have fun with it. Unlike in Thailand, where everyone can tell at a glance that Thai is not my native tongue, in France I was assumed to be fluent until I opened my mouth. The people I spoke to there had only a second or two to adjust themselves to someone mangling their language. I let them know right away that they were dealing with a tourist by overdoing the accent.

Non, je ne regrette rien. Vive le français! Vive la crème brûlée! Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Visit to the Rest Room Between Flights in Turkey En Route Europe for a Fun Reunion with Old Friends

It looked from the outside like a men’s room. A sign outside the door read “MEN.” But the security guard at Istanbul Airport questioned me suspiciously as I moved toward the entrance.

Soon I knew why. Just inside the door, piles of shoes were scattered about. To the left was a large open shower stall, with faucets placed around knee height. The thing I really needed, a urinal, was nowhere to be found.

Then I looked to the right and saw the prayer rugs. Men were resting all around the edges of the large room. It was not a restroom. I backed out, past the smirking security guard, to continue my search.

Biking in Bangkok

Especially since the recent political troubles have been making headlines internationally, people have written to ask if I’m in any danger when I go out and about in Bangkok. Short answer: no. Personal safety ranks higher here than in most American cities. A longer answer: the biggest Bangkok danger isn’t protests. It’s the unpredictable behavior of motorcycle drivers.

They snake around stopped cars and buses without really looking to see whether the lane they’re entering is really open. They create their own lane where none existed before, or use sidewalks as shortcuts. Luckily I’ve never had a really close encounter, but at least three of Jip’s caregivers have been hit while walking.

Recently a new category of road and sidewalk danger came to my attention. I had set out on a borrowed bicycle to ride though the neighborhoods surrounding the ministry where I work. The plan seemed worth the risk—I expected to stick to mostly quiet streets. My aim was to find a place we might move to that would offer most of the advantages of our current apartment, together with a shorter commute and a cheaper price tag.

The flaw in the excursion was my assumption that bicycles should follow certain traffic rules. For instance, it seemed to me pretty basic that I not ride facing oncoming buses. Yet many bicyclists I encountered were choosing to do just that. For some reason I had never noticed this behavior as a bus passenger. Now, as a fellow rider, it seemed to be happening every few minutes.

All of us might have managed to share the road if Bangkok had such a thing as a dedicated bicycle lane (you’re thinking, “he’s dreaming what?”). Without that luxury of extra room along the shoulder, somebody had to give way. It was always me, especially because many of the riders coming at me turned out to be a rider and a passenger, making them doubly wobbly.

Another unwinnable faceoff: pedal-driven broom sellers. These folks make their living by riding into small lanes and back streets, hawking large objects that surround them as they ride. I assume accidents must happen, considering how much of their vision is blocked by their wares (see the pic at right). Several of these people were coming my way as I rode around town, and I always found a way to let them pass. I that doubt any of them ever saw me.

At one stage I looked over my shoulder and saw rain clouds gathering. By this time I had already decided to return to where the bicycle really lived. The looming downpour made speed even more critical. The wind picked up. Little bits of dirt and straw that had been sitting quietly, minding their own business, suddenly began gyrating. They gave no warning. The unexpected dust devils became even bigger hazards than the unexpected head-on bicycle traffic. It was like riding into a sandstorm. I closed my eyes, praying that a broom seller didn’t appear when I opened them again.

Miraculously, I made it to the bicycle’s true home unscathed, minutes before the rain broke. My dreams of bicycle commuting, however, had suffered a severe setback.

Brits vs. Yanks

Even though this time the World Cup isn’t being played on the same continent as Thailand, and even though the games begin pretty late for people who work a regular day, everyone still seems to be fully informed on the morning after. I haven’t been hard core enough to stay up for the games that finish here shortly before the sun comes up.

With one exception. An invitation to join the lads from the old mans’ soccer league was too good to pass up. The match was of course the U.S. vs. England. The place was the Londoner Pub. At our table were four Yanks, two Thais, and a Turk who had gone to college in Louisiana. We were surrounded by about fifteen big screens and five hundred Englishmen. The owner’s son stopped by our table to offer his condolences. He also guaranteed us a protective escort in case the unthinkable happened, and the English side lost. At least that’s what I think he said. His voice got lost amidst the drinking songs, which became progressively louder as kickoff approached.

Technically Bangkok pubs aren’t supposed to serve alcohol after 2am. For this occasion the rules were skirted by requiring that everyone buy drink coupons before 12:30, followed by an announcement at 1am that the pub was officially closed. Nobody left the premises, of course. The event had simply become a “private party” at that point, no longer admitting new “guests.” I gather that at various watering holes around the city, beer after 2am is poured from tea kettles into teacups as another way around the regulations.

Probably you already know about the English captain’s nifty goal in the first five minutes of the match (pandemonium at the Londoner Pub) and the English goalkeeper’s “Hand of Clod” howler that evened the score (shocked silence, followed by a teenybopper-style scream from an excited American fan who was taking a big risk). From that point on, all of us at our table pulled our heads a little lower between our shoulder blades and sent up prayers (answered, thank god) that Wayne Rooney wouldn’t upset the delicate sense of cease-fire that had descended upon the room.

“Dying for a tie” described both nationalities, though each group meant something different by the phrase. The Brits appeared to have collectively lost years off the end of their lives. Meanwhile Yanks were thinking that the final whistle couldn’t come soon enough.

In the end we all made it out of the pub alive.

Summer School

For a while it seemed that everybody here was either really agitated or really depressed about Thailand’s troubles. Around that time, the middle of last month, when things were at their most explosive and the international press was updating standoff stories every few hours, the U.S. Embassy offered to evacuate employees’ family members.

Nobody I know was nervous enough about the situation to accept the offer, which expired today. I did hear a rumor that some international school kids, at risk of failing their finals, had successfully begged their parents to send them away. The program, known in official State Dept.-ese as “Authorized Departure,” demands that the evacuees return immediately after the offer expires. Pity the students who thought they were off the hook. Sounds like their plans for the rest of the month now include summer school.

Generally speaking things are again calm, at least on the surface. A curfew that lasted about ten days, and got progressively shorter as time went on, has now ended (though a state of emergency is still in force). The newspapers are now dominated by stories about politicians talking to one another rather than communicating through the press or via speeches.

Of course it’s just a lull in the action. No doubt a nasty plot is being hatched somewhere out of sight, and cells of people with narrow agendas are regrouping, and the military is scripting its reactions for what to do when the elections don’t turn out right.

Let us pray that all of the leaders associated with the recent conflicts also spend some time in summer school. The craziness of the past few months turns out not to be unique in Thai history. Dead ends, snipers, even arson on a grand scale have all appeared before in the long-running drama soap opera that is politics here.

Thus far I’m not convinced that the lessons of the earlier episodes have been absorbed. Last week Thaksin was formally accused of supporting terrorism, a decision that seems to play right into the hands of his well-paid spin-doctor squad. Coming up are debates about the current flawed constitution, and about lifting the ban on participating in politics for more than 100 members of dissolved parties. Compromise on those controversies will be much tougher now than they might have been before recent events, but looking back at the many examples in Thai history of following the middle way may help move things forward this time.

On a positive note, more than 10,000 volunteers, most of them young, turned out last weekend for a city-sponsored clean-up of the protest sites. Perhaps if the people lead, the leaders will follow?

Buoyant

Thailand’s mood these days may be more downcast than usual, but nobody seems to have told Jip. Her brand of drunk-on-life cheerfulness is delightful. It doesn’t take much to start her chuckling, a little bit like that film character played by Dudley Moore who used to say, “Sometimes I just think funny things.”

Consider this anecdote from last night. As a former nurse, Jip insists that her caregivers wash their hands often. She even loudly counts to ten as they’re scrubbing. That length of time (or about long enough to sing Happy Birthday twice) is thought to be effective at decreasing viruses.

Jip’s regular caregivers hear her count several times a day, and have probably tuned it out. During my turn on Sunday nights, I still listen for her to reach the end, because I know she’ll ask me to do it again if I finish too early. Last night, thinking of my birthday the day before, she switched from counting to singing. She only got through the song once, stopped by her own ripples of laughter.

Words on the Street

I’ve been asking Thai friends if they've heard any good jokes about the situation here. Nobody has, and nobody even thinks the question is funny. Everyone seems discouraged about the non-outcome of the protests and the government’s disappointing non-response to the grievances.

Most of these people call Bangkok home. Their feelings range from “freaked out” to “violated.” It’s a tender time. Nobody says they are optimistic about the current leaders’ ability to heal the country’s wounds. I’m not as tapped in to what people are saying in the provinces, but I can guess the mindset there is even more distrustful.

Even if this government were to last until the end of next year, when by law new elections must be called, it certainly has an uphill climb. There will be legal clashes, PR games, lots of money spent, and probably even more violence. Mixed all that together and you get a potent cocktail.

That said, it’s still hard for me to imagine the country disintegrating into “civil war,” a term that all of the various parties in the current conflicts have bandied about over recent weeks. I interpret the use of that phrase as mostly posturing (by the side that doesn’t have any big weapons), and justifying repressive measures (by the side that does).

Day After

Usually international news accounts make things look worse than they really are. Today the reports I read about last night’s many arsons don’t seem strong enough. The fires were so widespread, so efficient, and so simultaneous that it’s hard to believe they were the work of random mob members acting alone.

When the smoke finally cleared today, I couldn’t see any sign that the political dialogue had advanced from where things stood before the current round of protests began.

The public mood is a mixture of denial, depression, and disbelief. Over and over I hear, referring to the self-destructive forms that mass protest has taken here during the past couple of years, “this isn’t Thailand.” Perhaps the country has weathered worse identity crises in the past, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch this time.

Jip’s sensitive nose is confused by all the new smells in the air.

Devastating Day for Thailand

Bangkok is on fire. Outside, smoke from a few miles away hides the downtown high-rises. Inside, the smell of burning plastic has started to cling to our clothes.

Another way of measuring how nerve-wracking today was: the U.S. Embassy sends text messages to suggest avoiding certain areas. Since last Thursday I've received two or three per day. Today I got ten. The number of texts each day for the previous week:

May 13 – 2
May 14 – 3
May 15 – 2
May 16 – 0
May 17 – 3
May 18 – 2
May 19 – 10

Jip and I are safe.

Crackdown

Today is Day 2 of an effort by the government to clear protesters out of the area they have dominated for about two months. Things are not good.

I keep thinking about two books I’ve been reading recently. Team of Rivals is an American Civil War history about President Lincoln’s cabinet, which he carefully constructed to give him diverse opinions and to represent many factions. The book highlights Lincoln’s leadership style, emphasizing how in touch he was with the public mood and with the troops. Finding a Lincoln to lead Thailand during this time of trouble might be asking too much. Making sure that Abhisit is surrounded by varied voices would seem to be a smart strategy. I wonder how good his information is, as he holes up at an army base north of town.

The Coldest Winter recounts the story of the Korean War. With 20/20 hindsight, the author suggests several missed opportunities for ending the conflict that ultimately ended in a draw. Those moments came and went, says the author, because so many of the leaders were true believers, overly convinced of the rightness of their cause.

Jip and I are safe.

Cell Number Remote Sensing

A report came my way of a new technology being used in the area of the red-shirt protests. Somebody I know claims he was sitting in a café not far from the center of the action, when his phone alerted him that he had a text message. He was surprised to read that the military was recommending that he leave the area immediately.

“How do they know where I am?” he thought. A few calls to friends in other parts of the city convinced him that the text was indeed only being sent to people in the vicinity of the several city blocks that have been under the control of the red shirts for going on 50 days already. Presumably some GPS-like device had detected his phone and generated the text.

Since then I’ve spoken to two other people who got similar text messages while riding the sky train through the affected area. Most likely a record of their phone numbers is now stored in some government computer, thus allowing some government official to cooperate with the phone companies to look up who was where when. Video surveillance is one thing, but this kind of remote sensing technique brings new meaning to the term Big Brother.

Jip’s Feisty Self Returns

She is now up to her same old rascal-y ways. The relatively docile, sleep-though-the-night Jip who was discharged from the hospital just under a month ago seems to have been nothing more than an avatar. I knew that the Jip we’re all used to had returned when I realized a few days ago that she was again insisting on pre-sniffing all of her clothing, on supervising in the kitchen, and on generally running the show around here.

Welcome back!

Limbo Time

On Monday night the prime minister went on TV with a road map. Now it’s limbo time. Have the protesters decided to begin negotiating seriously? Will the barricades they’ve set up begin to come down? Will the threatened counter-protests now be called off? Are the government’s offers to call elections serious?

Those three reputed Chinese curses come to mind:

May you live in interesting times
May you come to the attention of those in authority
May you find what you are looking for

This is Not About Issues

Thailand’s political crisis boils down to rich against poor, right? Whose turn it is to get how much power? How far democracy will be allowed to go in Thailand? The role of the royal family? At least those are some of the questions Westerners might ask in trying to understand the latest events here. We are taught to think first of causes.

Thais see the headlines differently, I suspect. Through their eyes the current struggle is about the relationships between the various red and yellow personalities. Some of the stuff that has gone down over the past couple of years amounts to settling old scores, saving face, and following the lead of the “phuu yai,” a term in Thai that translates as chief, superior, principal, or head man. In Thailand historically there’s lots of precedent for doing what the phuu yai says, regardless of whether or not he’s right. Loyalty to him today will pay dividends tomorrow.

Conspicuously absent in the dialogue are issues, at least in the sense that the term is traditionally used in Western politics. Speeches revolve around how bad the other guys are, not around specifically how things will be better under us.

Further complicating the conflict is the emphasis on national unity that is instilled in most Thai people from an early age. The Thai nation is a relatively young concept—some would say less than 100 years old. As borders have been better defined, successive governments have sought to also define who is Thai. That effort led to a change in the country’s name from Siam (circa 1939) and to national school curricula that promote a common language, history, and religion. To watch Thailand split apart is therefore especially uncomfortable for many people who grew up here. Little wonder that Westerners and Thais hear different things when Thai leaders speak.