Coming home late from the temple trip described recently in this space, I ended up with a leg injury that will leave me hobbled for a few weeks. (A motorcycle was involved. I’ll spare you the details. If you come visit, we can go out to the sidewalk in front of our place for a re-enactment of the whole uninteresting tale.)
What is interesting to me is the reaction of Thai friends and colleagues when they see me limping around. Almost to a person, they say the same thing after they hear what happened: “faad khraw.” This phrase, which translates literally as “to beat fate,” goes beyond the meaning of “I’m glad it wasn’t worse,” to suggest that paying a small price today will prevent future, bigger misfortunes. It’s a fairly common saying in Thailand, and seems to be especially appropriate around the time of a milestone, such as a new year. In this case people were telling me that because of this setback, 2011 will likely be lucky for me. Hope they’re right.
Talking with one Thai well-wisher about this event and his use of “faad khraw” in reply, I began to get a little goofy, wondering aloud about fate and karma and the possibility of some weird connection to the leg injury sustained by the guy I met on the road near the border two decades ago. My friend cut me off with another classic Thai reply: “yaa khid maak!”—“You’re thinking too much!”
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Road Taken
Back in the refugee camp days, it wasn’t safe to go tromping off on your own to the actual Thai-Cambodian border. The closer you got to the dividing line between the two countries, the higher the chances that you’d meet somebody with a weapon. Lots of land mines got laid there too.
I still recall a lazy Sunday afternoon, sitting around playing music with a few other camp workers in the little border town where many of us lived. A frantic Khmer man drove up and asked for our help in getting his friend admitted to a nearby hospital. Not really thinking what we were getting ourselves into, two of us foreigners hopped in his truck and drove toward Cambodia for a few kilometers along a road we had never traveled before. We stopped in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, only to see a couple of men emerge from the forest carrying a make-do stretcher.
When they came closer we realized that the guy they were carrying had stepped on a mine. They hung the stretcher, hammock-style, from the inside corners of the shell on the back of the pickup. I sat back there with the guy to keep him steady while we drove to the hospital. He was really suffering and the two of us didn’t have much common language. All I could think to do was to hold his hand and sing to him. Luckily we were able to get him cared for. It wasn’t until the driver dropped us back in town that my friend and I realized we had taken a big risk in going along on that ride.
Two days ago, twenty-plus years after that incident, I got a chance to travel again on that road. Cambodia is no longer off limits; that part of the border is safe. (Tragically, the mines don’t know the war is over, and they continue to claim victims in areas that haven’t been cleared). I journeyed there for a look at a 1,000-year-old Khmer temple I’d read about called Sdok Kok Thom.
The Thai Fine Arts Council’s restoration looks great, as you can see in these before and after pictures. I had the place to myself, except for a school group whose impressive leader taught with questions rather than by lecture: “how are you each going to tell the story of this temple when you get home today?”
Indeed, Sdok Kok Thom’s story is unique. A pillar once stood at the corner of the grounds, inscribed with details about the why’s and the who’s of the temple’s construction. Scholars who have studied the inscription (now in Bangkok for safekeeping) say that it explains more about the context of those times than any similar Angkor-era “cornerstone.”
Perhaps in the future more tourists will also discover the magic of this site. For now, the road remains just as empty as it was the first time I took it. At that time, of course, I hadn’t known where I was going, nor that a temple was hiding in the forest. I hadn’t realized then that just three years earlier, some of my refugee students had stayed in a camp just a stone’s throw from the temple—until that camp was destroyed by shelling from the Cambodian side of the border. I never considered that the area was mined.
A sign at the edge of the site today commemorates the collaborative mine removal effort, which finished in 2004. A total of 76 explosive devices were found buried around the temple.
I still recall a lazy Sunday afternoon, sitting around playing music with a few other camp workers in the little border town where many of us lived. A frantic Khmer man drove up and asked for our help in getting his friend admitted to a nearby hospital. Not really thinking what we were getting ourselves into, two of us foreigners hopped in his truck and drove toward Cambodia for a few kilometers along a road we had never traveled before. We stopped in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, only to see a couple of men emerge from the forest carrying a make-do stretcher.
When they came closer we realized that the guy they were carrying had stepped on a mine. They hung the stretcher, hammock-style, from the inside corners of the shell on the back of the pickup. I sat back there with the guy to keep him steady while we drove to the hospital. He was really suffering and the two of us didn’t have much common language. All I could think to do was to hold his hand and sing to him. Luckily we were able to get him cared for. It wasn’t until the driver dropped us back in town that my friend and I realized we had taken a big risk in going along on that ride.
Two days ago, twenty-plus years after that incident, I got a chance to travel again on that road. Cambodia is no longer off limits; that part of the border is safe. (Tragically, the mines don’t know the war is over, and they continue to claim victims in areas that haven’t been cleared). I journeyed there for a look at a 1,000-year-old Khmer temple I’d read about called Sdok Kok Thom.The Thai Fine Arts Council’s restoration looks great, as you can see in these before and after pictures. I had the place to myself, except for a school group whose impressive leader taught with questions rather than by lecture: “how are you each going to tell the story of this temple when you get home today?”
Indeed, Sdok Kok Thom’s story is unique. A pillar once stood at the corner of the grounds, inscribed with details about the why’s and the who’s of the temple’s construction. Scholars who have studied the inscription (now in Bangkok for safekeeping) say that it explains more about the context of those times than any similar Angkor-era “cornerstone.”
Perhaps in the future more tourists will also discover the magic of this site. For now, the road remains just as empty as it was the first time I took it. At that time, of course, I hadn’t known where I was going, nor that a temple was hiding in the forest. I hadn’t realized then that just three years earlier, some of my refugee students had stayed in a camp just a stone’s throw from the temple—until that camp was destroyed by shelling from the Cambodian side of the border. I never considered that the area was mined.
A sign at the edge of the site today commemorates the collaborative mine removal effort, which finished in 2004. A total of 76 explosive devices were found buried around the temple.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Who Says Never the Twain Shall East Meet West?
Muffin flavor of the month at a Bangkok bakery: Banana cheddar.
You make the call…
- Sign that the apocalypse is upon us?
- Proof that Thailand now sets trends for global cuisine?
- Tragic consequence of somebody in the kitchen misreading the Thai-English dictionary?
- Indication that I need to get out more?
You make the call…
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Ploughing Through
I know about racism and sexism—but what’s the word for when people ridicule or romanticize rural life? Rusticism? Idealization? Whatever you call it, I sometimes do it. Lots of city folks do.
Here’s a cure: a Thai documentary called "Agrarian Utopia," directed by Uruphong Raksasad. It’s about the hardships of growing rice here.
Rakasad made arrangements to film two families working a small plot of land for a year. There was no script, only suggestions to the farmers about what they might talk about on camera. The
“actors” struggle with all kinds of weather, a stubborn buffalo, and spiraling debts. At various points they have to forage for food, taking honey from beehives and eating ants.
Whether or not this striking movie really captures what it’s like to plug away at this increasingly unsustainable way of life, I can’t really say. But I doubt I’ll look at gorgeous green rice fields in quite the same way from now on. Here’s the trailer. Check it out at a film festival near you.
Here’s a cure: a Thai documentary called "Agrarian Utopia," directed by Uruphong Raksasad. It’s about the hardships of growing rice here.
Rakasad made arrangements to film two families working a small plot of land for a year. There was no script, only suggestions to the farmers about what they might talk about on camera. The
“actors” struggle with all kinds of weather, a stubborn buffalo, and spiraling debts. At various points they have to forage for food, taking honey from beehives and eating ants.Whether or not this striking movie really captures what it’s like to plug away at this increasingly unsustainable way of life, I can’t really say. But I doubt I’ll look at gorgeous green rice fields in quite the same way from now on. Here’s the trailer. Check it out at a film festival near you.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Franklin's Angkor
To the list of time-honored traditions that go with this time of year, right alongside floating candles, yams with rosemary, and pictures with Santa, I’m now officially adding a 21-kilometer roadrace amidst Cambodian temples. For the fourth consecutive first Sunday in December, a few friends and I lined up at the start line in front of Angkor Wat to do a lovely early morning circuit of my favorite monuments on the planet.
The annual trot has become a comforting ritual. For some reason an old Grateful Dead lyric comes to mind:
In another time’s forgotten space
Your eyes looked from your mother's face
Wallflower seed on the sand and stone
May the four winds blow you safely home
Roll away the dew
Whatever that means. I’ve sung that tune countless times to myself, never really caring what it means, but somehow today it seems a fine description of the route taken by this magnificent race course.
We start out protected by a canopy of big trees lining the road that winds through the gigantic archeological park. Leaves drop around us as we settle in to our pace. The first five kilometers include a short out-and-back leg that makes the entire loop come out to be the right distance, which means we get a quick look at the leaders as they sprint by us on their way to finishing in under 90 minutes.
Not long after we leave behind the 200-meter-wide moat that surrounds Angkor Wat, we’re encountering kids by the side of the course. Most are hugging their moms’ legs out of shyness, or staring quizzically, as if to say, “It can ring like fire if you lose your way.” Soon a few have gotten brave enough to wave, and by the third or fourth water station, lots of the volunteers picking up the water bottles that runners cast aside are kids.
Every year I particularly look forward to a certain corner, just about at the halfway point in the race. The running route goes left, but if you were to turn right and go a few hundred meters a lovely reservoir known as Srah Srang (“Royal Bath”) would emerge from the forest. Perhaps this place lies just outside the formal boundaries of the park? or maybe the water source remains important to the locals, just as it was when they dug it out 800 years ago? Whatever the reason, the intersection marks a village, and so is busier with spectators than any place along the way other than the finish. A long receiving line of waving, smiling Cambodians awaits us there, extending their hands to be slapped, cheering in a mixture of Khmer and English. I can’t help grinning as I run past. The energy we take from that corner sticks with us for weeks.
And the temples just stay as great as ever. As I’ve said several times, you just can’t ruin these ruins. God knows people have tried. First we run by Prasat Kravan, the Cardamom Sanctuary, whose five brick towers have been restored to their original height but are missing what were once some impressive innards, likely carted off by thieves long ago. Further along is Ta Prohm, traditionally the coolest of Angkor’s untouched temples… until this past year, when the Indian archeologists began “improvements” to protect it from being loved to death. Then there’s Ta Keo, and the Victory Gate, and the Terrace of the Elephants, all of which have a few warts when seen in harsh sunlight, but at that hour—we’re passing by at around 7:30 in the morning—are just about the finest combination of sand and stone anywhere.
Finally the four winds blow us safely home. The race ends where it began, but of course we’re not the same people we were when we started. Another year has gone by. We’ve had a spiritual journey: answered the call, rung the bell, chanted the mantra, emerged from the whale’s belly, rolled away the dew. In the endlessly interpretable words of the Dead:
Some come to laugh their past away
Some come to make it just one more day
Whichever way your pleasure tends
If you plant ice you're gonna harvest wind
The annual trot has become a comforting ritual. For some reason an old Grateful Dead lyric comes to mind:
In another time’s forgotten space
Your eyes looked from your mother's face
Wallflower seed on the sand and stone
May the four winds blow you safely home
Roll away the dew
Whatever that means. I’ve sung that tune countless times to myself, never really caring what it means, but somehow today it seems a fine description of the route taken by this magnificent race course.
We start out protected by a canopy of big trees lining the road that winds through the gigantic archeological park. Leaves drop around us as we settle in to our pace. The first five kilometers include a short out-and-back leg that makes the entire loop come out to be the right distance, which means we get a quick look at the leaders as they sprint by us on their way to finishing in under 90 minutes.
Not long after we leave behind the 200-meter-wide moat that surrounds Angkor Wat, we’re encountering kids by the side of the course. Most are hugging their moms’ legs out of shyness, or staring quizzically, as if to say, “It can ring like fire if you lose your way.” Soon a few have gotten brave enough to wave, and by the third or fourth water station, lots of the volunteers picking up the water bottles that runners cast aside are kids.
Every year I particularly look forward to a certain corner, just about at the halfway point in the race. The running route goes left, but if you were to turn right and go a few hundred meters a lovely reservoir known as Srah Srang (“Royal Bath”) would emerge from the forest. Perhaps this place lies just outside the formal boundaries of the park? or maybe the water source remains important to the locals, just as it was when they dug it out 800 years ago? Whatever the reason, the intersection marks a village, and so is busier with spectators than any place along the way other than the finish. A long receiving line of waving, smiling Cambodians awaits us there, extending their hands to be slapped, cheering in a mixture of Khmer and English. I can’t help grinning as I run past. The energy we take from that corner sticks with us for weeks.
And the temples just stay as great as ever. As I’ve said several times, you just can’t ruin these ruins. God knows people have tried. First we run by Prasat Kravan, the Cardamom Sanctuary, whose five brick towers have been restored to their original height but are missing what were once some impressive innards, likely carted off by thieves long ago. Further along is Ta Prohm, traditionally the coolest of Angkor’s untouched temples… until this past year, when the Indian archeologists began “improvements” to protect it from being loved to death. Then there’s Ta Keo, and the Victory Gate, and the Terrace of the Elephants, all of which have a few warts when seen in harsh sunlight, but at that hour—we’re passing by at around 7:30 in the morning—are just about the finest combination of sand and stone anywhere.
Finally the four winds blow us safely home. The race ends where it began, but of course we’re not the same people we were when we started. Another year has gone by. We’ve had a spiritual journey: answered the call, rung the bell, chanted the mantra, emerged from the whale’s belly, rolled away the dew. In the endlessly interpretable words of the Dead:
Some come to laugh their past away
Some come to make it just one more day
Whichever way your pleasure tends
If you plant ice you're gonna harvest wind
Friday, November 26, 2010
Talking Turkey
Unlike Loy Krathong, Thanksgiving is a holiday Jip can get behind. It’s the one day of the year when she agrees to vary her routine—or at least to trade one routine for another. Eating yams baked with rosemary has become our tradition.
Yesterday we took that dish across town to the home of a colleague, where a few folks from work gathered for the traditional feed. Jip didn’t have any turkey or pie, but she did enjoy the conversation around the table, just as she liked going last year to a gathering of people who all graduated from my college--she felt the banter was more interesting than what she usually hears at home. She seemed at ease right away, even thought she had met only one of the other people before. Partly that comfort is a sign of our hosts being easy to know, but mostly it reflects how much more social Jip has become during the past year or so than she was when we first came back to Thailand.
With this mixed-age, international group she took the opportunity to share her standard advice about how to eat a balanced diet: “Mix colors.” Later in the meal it seemed appropriate for me to tell a turkey day tale
that’s been making the rounds on e-mail.
Once again this year, there’s lots for us to be thankful for.
Yesterday we took that dish across town to the home of a colleague, where a few folks from work gathered for the traditional feed. Jip didn’t have any turkey or pie, but she did enjoy the conversation around the table, just as she liked going last year to a gathering of people who all graduated from my college--she felt the banter was more interesting than what she usually hears at home. She seemed at ease right away, even thought she had met only one of the other people before. Partly that comfort is a sign of our hosts being easy to know, but mostly it reflects how much more social Jip has become during the past year or so than she was when we first came back to Thailand.
With this mixed-age, international group she took the opportunity to share her standard advice about how to eat a balanced diet: “Mix colors.” Later in the meal it seemed appropriate for me to tell a turkey day tale
that’s been making the rounds on e-mail.Once again this year, there’s lots for us to be thankful for.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Loy Krathong in Nonthaburi
As usual Jip this year took a Scrooge-like attitude toward Loy Krathong, saying as she did in 2005, 2006, and 2009 that the holiday has been commercialized and romanticized. She’s right about that part. But here we are in new quarters, with a new place to float, so in the end tonight she went along for the ride and the spectacle was beautiful.
A big banana leaf snipped from the garden out back provided plenty of raw material for more than enough krathongs. Jip’s caregiver and I pushed Jip to a prime spot near the swimming pool where she could hear the frogs as they began to celebrate the evening. We thought we had the place to ourselves, but just as we launched the last of our floating candles, a neighbor family, walking toward the parking lot, noticed what we were up to.
I think the parents had planned to celebrate down at the river, but their children couldn’t wait. Soon the whole pool was illuminated by our combined efforts. The kids were squealing, the frogs were answering, the world was shimmering. Jip grudgingly cracked a smile.
A big banana leaf snipped from the garden out back provided plenty of raw material for more than enough krathongs. Jip’s caregiver and I pushed Jip to a prime spot near the swimming pool where she could hear the frogs as they began to celebrate the evening. We thought we had the place to ourselves, but just as we launched the last of our floating candles, a neighbor family, walking toward the parking lot, noticed what we were up to.
I think the parents had planned to celebrate down at the river, but their children couldn’t wait. Soon the whole pool was illuminated by our combined efforts. The kids were squealing, the frogs were answering, the world was shimmering. Jip grudgingly cracked a smile.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Four Hands
The Angkor Wat half marathon is coming up again. In trying to get ready without getting injured, I altered my training routine this year to include massages on rest days. Considering that every other day is a rest day, you might call this schedule pretty decadent.
Guilty as charged… but I’m pain-free so far, so maybe the plan is working.
One complication I hadn’t foreseen: massage shops close early in our new part of town. At some of them, if you’re not in the door by 7pm, there’s a risk of being told to come back tomorrow. That’s nearly what happened the other day. I showed up around 7:15, figuring I was safe
because I asked for just the one-hour, feet-and-legs-only variety. The three staff had plans to be somewhere at 8. No problem, I said, starting to devise my Plan B.
They beat me to it. “How about I do your right leg, and at the same time she does your left leg, and we wrap up in 30 minutes?” Deal.
Guilty as charged… but I’m pain-free so far, so maybe the plan is working.
One complication I hadn’t foreseen: massage shops close early in our new part of town. At some of them, if you’re not in the door by 7pm, there’s a risk of being told to come back tomorrow. That’s nearly what happened the other day. I showed up around 7:15, figuring I was safe
because I asked for just the one-hour, feet-and-legs-only variety. The three staff had plans to be somewhere at 8. No problem, I said, starting to devise my Plan B.They beat me to it. “How about I do your right leg, and at the same time she does your left leg, and we wrap up in 30 minutes?” Deal.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Old Pals, New Script
Jip had a visit from a few college classmates over the weekend. This group developed strong ties 30 years ago through lots of late night bull sessions. Their interest at that time was student activism.
The political pendulum swung fast in those days. Democratic experiments alternated with direct military rule. Conservative governments were brought down by leftist protests, only to return with the support of large movements that were concerned about the spread of communism. Thousands of dissidents went into the jungle and challenged the government from there about all kinds of issues.
Thailand had been a strong American ally during the war in Vietnam, which was still fresh in the minds of the Thai public when Jip entered college. Many students resented that American airbases inside Thailand weren’t being dismantled.
Jip says she and the friends who came to see us a few days ago protested “American hegemony” in front of the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok. They also chanted over what they said were unfair subsidies given to American rice farmers, which made it impossible for Thai farmers to compete in world markets.
This weekend, they talked about other things. The first one to show up hadn’t seen Jip since graduation. I was surprised to find that he too uses a wheelchair. He arrived in a specially equipped van, with a caregiver in tow. It wasn’t long before he asked Jip about how she prevents bedsores!
His disability has affected his speech. I imagine that some people meeting him for the first time might have trouble understanding him, as happens with Jip. Yet the two of them seemed to catch each other’s words easily, never needing to repeat themselves. Jip’s caregiver and his caregiver when off in a corner to compare notes.
After the others arrived, everyone soon began joking and laughing. They caught up on who has changed jobs, been divorced, gotten which advanced degrees—the usual old stuff. Jip never said so directly, but I sensed that for her the most special part of the afternoon was the new stuff.
The political pendulum swung fast in those days. Democratic experiments alternated with direct military rule. Conservative governments were brought down by leftist protests, only to return with the support of large movements that were concerned about the spread of communism. Thousands of dissidents went into the jungle and challenged the government from there about all kinds of issues.
Thailand had been a strong American ally during the war in Vietnam, which was still fresh in the minds of the Thai public when Jip entered college. Many students resented that American airbases inside Thailand weren’t being dismantled.
Jip says she and the friends who came to see us a few days ago protested “American hegemony” in front of the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok. They also chanted over what they said were unfair subsidies given to American rice farmers, which made it impossible for Thai farmers to compete in world markets.
This weekend, they talked about other things. The first one to show up hadn’t seen Jip since graduation. I was surprised to find that he too uses a wheelchair. He arrived in a specially equipped van, with a caregiver in tow. It wasn’t long before he asked Jip about how she prevents bedsores!
His disability has affected his speech. I imagine that some people meeting him for the first time might have trouble understanding him, as happens with Jip. Yet the two of them seemed to catch each other’s words easily, never needing to repeat themselves. Jip’s caregiver and his caregiver when off in a corner to compare notes.
After the others arrived, everyone soon began joking and laughing. They caught up on who has changed jobs, been divorced, gotten which advanced degrees—the usual old stuff. Jip never said so directly, but I sensed that for her the most special part of the afternoon was the new stuff.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Great Sleeping Weather
Historical average temperatures for October 30:
Conditions don’t get much better than this here. It’s been cooler than normal for late October. Tonight the mercury dipped below 70—a record low for this date in Thailand.
There was none of the usual sweaty forehead on Jip, whose wacky internal thermostat usually leads her to request more blankets than she really needs. I tucked her in at bedtime and then went for a run. In the wonderful humidity-free air, I felt like I could keep going till sunrise.
Now I’m finally home again, googling historical average temperatures. In a minute I’ll look around for whatever blankets are left over, and sleep like a brick.
High Low
Chicago, Illinois 57 (14) 37 (3)
Seattle, Washington 55 (13) 43 (6)
Bangkok, Thailand 88 (31) 73 (23)
Conditions don’t get much better than this here. It’s been cooler than normal for late October. Tonight the mercury dipped below 70—a record low for this date in Thailand.
There was none of the usual sweaty forehead on Jip, whose wacky internal thermostat usually leads her to request more blankets than she really needs. I tucked her in at bedtime and then went for a run. In the wonderful humidity-free air, I felt like I could keep going till sunrise.
Now I’m finally home again, googling historical average temperatures. In a minute I’ll look around for whatever blankets are left over, and sleep like a brick.
Monday, October 25, 2010
No Looking Back
We’ve now been in our new apartment about two months. It’s been a good move in almost every way. There are only two things I miss from our old neighborhood.
One is a pad thai cart that sold a very impressive plate of noodles. I ate there about once a week. I even made a point of stopping to say goodbye to the wok-meister before we left.
The other is a decent DVD rental place. There are video stores where we live now, but mostly the movies are for sale only. Also, the categories are very different from what I was used to. Here is a representative sample of the shelf labels at one of the shops I wandered into this afternoon:
Car Action
Hardboiled
Panic
Sky Action
Splatter
I am not making these up.
One is a pad thai cart that sold a very impressive plate of noodles. I ate there about once a week. I even made a point of stopping to say goodbye to the wok-meister before we left.
The other is a decent DVD rental place. There are video stores where we live now, but mostly the movies are for sale only. Also, the categories are very different from what I was used to. Here is a representative sample of the shelf labels at one of the shops I wandered into this afternoon:
Car Action
Hardboiled
Panic
Sky Action
Splatter
I am not making these up.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Double Birthday in the Midwest
The blurry picture below, taken around 1980, got a nice update last weekend as we all gathered for 
a double celebration of the big round-numbered birthdays of our parents, who were born a month apart in 1930. Fall Midwestern temperatures were perfect for a Saturday picnic and slumber party.
The highlight was watching the beaming smiles on the two guests of honor, as they floated around chatting with their seven kids, six grandkids, and a swarm of significant others. If Jip had made it, we would have had 100% attendance. That turnout—21 showed up for Sunday brunch, from four different time zones—was a fitting tribute to these two marvelous people.
a double celebration of the big round-numbered birthdays of our parents, who were born a month apart in 1930. Fall Midwestern temperatures were perfect for a Saturday picnic and slumber party.The highlight was watching the beaming smiles on the two guests of honor, as they floated around chatting with their seven kids, six grandkids, and a swarm of significant others. If Jip had made it, we would have had 100% attendance. That turnout—21 showed up for Sunday brunch, from four different time zones—was a fitting tribute to these two marvelous people.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Thai Politics, Update
Thailand remains a tinderbox, nearly five months after the capital burned as opposition protesters scattered following a military crackdown on their extended central-city demonstration. Since then, opposition leadership has been silenced through jailings and selective blocking of radio and web communication. Nobody can say how many back-channel conversations are taking place that might lead to reconciliation between people at opposite ends of the political spectrum here.
A bomb went off yesterday in another part of the province next to Bangkok where we just moved. The explosion was quite a distance from our place, but it does serve as a reminder that lots of bitterness remains, in spite of a “Together We Can” campaign started by people representing the silent majority.
An emergency decree outlawing gatherings of more than five people remains in place for Bangkok and surrounding provinces. If elections were held tomorrow, the prime minister’s party would lose and the current government would be replaced by one that would like to bring back Thaksin. It’s still a potent mix here of globalization coming to the villages, obstinacy coming from the old guard, testosterone, fear, and legal mumbo-jumbo.
Somehow, Thailand’s economy churns along. Tourism seems to be rebounding, and the baht has rarely been stronger.
A bomb went off yesterday in another part of the province next to Bangkok where we just moved. The explosion was quite a distance from our place, but it does serve as a reminder that lots of bitterness remains, in spite of a “Together We Can” campaign started by people representing the silent majority.
An emergency decree outlawing gatherings of more than five people remains in place for Bangkok and surrounding provinces. If elections were held tomorrow, the prime minister’s party would lose and the current government would be replaced by one that would like to bring back Thaksin. It’s still a potent mix here of globalization coming to the villages, obstinacy coming from the old guard, testosterone, fear, and legal mumbo-jumbo.
Somehow, Thailand’s economy churns along. Tourism seems to be rebounding, and the baht has rarely been stronger.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Nailbiter
Tennis doesn’t fill stadiums here the way that soccer and Thai boxing do. Just the same, net sports get lots of play—it seems like there’s a game of badminton or takraw in every side street—and some well-regarded pro tennis players have emerged from Thailand in the last decade.
A friend called to offer me a spare ticket to the qualifying rounds of the annual Thailand Open, sounding almost apologetic about the no-names who would be on the program. I didn’t care about seeing Nadal. A day out sounded fun, and it had been a long time since my last chance to see professional sports.
We settled in as Warut Korkiatthaworn took on Alex Bogomolov. It was easy to tell these two apart. One of them won nearly all the points. Isn’t that how things are supposed to turn out on the first day of a pro tournament?
Next up were Dmitry Tursonov, on our left, against Marinko Motosevic, on our right. Or was it the other way around? Who knew? Each of them won his serve. Every time. After an hour of remarkably even play, the first tiebreaker finished 10-8. I was exhausted.
Now I know this wasn’t Roger vs. Rafa at Wimbledon. In the grand scheme of things, these guys were competing for peanuts, in a match that next week will be long forgotten. Yet I wasn’t sure my poor old tired body could handle another set like the first one. It wasn’t just that an hour’s labor had come down to a single point. Nor that tennis etiquette discourages yelling among the spectators, even when yelling is clearly called for.
No, the true cause of my tension was the full-blast air conditioning. This match was taking place in a refrigerated arena, which at that moment housed only a sprinkling of people. If by some chance one of the players hit a ball out of the court and into the stands, most likely it would have landed in an empty seat.
Where were all the tennis fans? Outside, shopping for gear at the crowded exhibition hall. Snapping photos next to the life-size cutouts of Paradorn and his glamorous wife. Lunching on
countless varieties of fast food.
Hardly anyone besides my friend and me knew about the battle of nerves going on inside the deep freeze.
The second set followed the same pattern as the first. By this time we had finally identified Tursonov as the one most anxious to move things along. Unlike Motosevic, he never argued a line call or dawdled during the breaks between games. Perhaps his confidence came from experience: we learned later that at the 2006 Thailand Open, he had won the whole tournament.
Whatever the reason, he prevailed in this match… barely. This time the tiebreaker ended 7-3. Out of 194 points played, Tursonov won only 12 more than Motosevic did. As they walked off the court after two hours, both players looked relieved that it was over. Yet their emancipation was nothing compared to the joy I felt as I walked out into the thawing mid-afternoon sun. I would gladly watch a rematch some day. As long as it is played at room temperature.
A friend called to offer me a spare ticket to the qualifying rounds of the annual Thailand Open, sounding almost apologetic about the no-names who would be on the program. I didn’t care about seeing Nadal. A day out sounded fun, and it had been a long time since my last chance to see professional sports.
We settled in as Warut Korkiatthaworn took on Alex Bogomolov. It was easy to tell these two apart. One of them won nearly all the points. Isn’t that how things are supposed to turn out on the first day of a pro tournament?
Next up were Dmitry Tursonov, on our left, against Marinko Motosevic, on our right. Or was it the other way around? Who knew? Each of them won his serve. Every time. After an hour of remarkably even play, the first tiebreaker finished 10-8. I was exhausted.
Now I know this wasn’t Roger vs. Rafa at Wimbledon. In the grand scheme of things, these guys were competing for peanuts, in a match that next week will be long forgotten. Yet I wasn’t sure my poor old tired body could handle another set like the first one. It wasn’t just that an hour’s labor had come down to a single point. Nor that tennis etiquette discourages yelling among the spectators, even when yelling is clearly called for.
No, the true cause of my tension was the full-blast air conditioning. This match was taking place in a refrigerated arena, which at that moment housed only a sprinkling of people. If by some chance one of the players hit a ball out of the court and into the stands, most likely it would have landed in an empty seat.
Where were all the tennis fans? Outside, shopping for gear at the crowded exhibition hall. Snapping photos next to the life-size cutouts of Paradorn and his glamorous wife. Lunching on
countless varieties of fast food.Hardly anyone besides my friend and me knew about the battle of nerves going on inside the deep freeze.
The second set followed the same pattern as the first. By this time we had finally identified Tursonov as the one most anxious to move things along. Unlike Motosevic, he never argued a line call or dawdled during the breaks between games. Perhaps his confidence came from experience: we learned later that at the 2006 Thailand Open, he had won the whole tournament.
Whatever the reason, he prevailed in this match… barely. This time the tiebreaker ended 7-3. Out of 194 points played, Tursonov won only 12 more than Motosevic did. As they walked off the court after two hours, both players looked relieved that it was over. Yet their emancipation was nothing compared to the joy I felt as I walked out into the thawing mid-afternoon sun. I would gladly watch a rematch some day. As long as it is played at room temperature.
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