Going Abroad

Shortly after walking across the border into Cambodia, I was approached by a man on a motorcycle who wondered if I wanted to visit the chicken farm. I must have given him a look that said, “Why on Earth?” because he elaborated: “You know, lay-dee!” First time I’d heard that term for that kind of place. I decided to pass up the offer.

Soon I found myself in a shared taxi, heading for the town where I planned to spend the night, about 50 kilometers inside the country. Nobody in this taxi was especially comfortable. There were eight of us inside, roughly 25 more in the back of the pickup, and one guy sitting on the hood. When road got bumpy, our “navigator” kept from being bounced off and into a ditch by holding on tighter to the windshield wiper.
Although it was my first time inside the country, Cambodia triggered lots of memories from our time in the refugee camp, which was sited minutes from the border. Certain smells transported me instantly: smoke from fires set by villagers in their fields, stagnant water, curry pastes in the markets. I also began to remember parts of the language that had long been buried. After a day or so I even started to figure out what people were talking about.

And I picked up right where I left off with a pair of American friends who had also worked in the camp. These two had followed the refugees back home when the camps closed in the early ‘90s. We spent our evenings having those endless conversations people have when they’ve hardly seen each other for twenty years. We didn’t manage to solve all of the world’s problems, but we did decide that most of the world’s politicians could have learned something from listening in on what we discussed.

(Billboard outside Mongkol Borei: The words on the sign say, "We no longer need weapons.")

On the Road Again

Speaking of going places, I took advantage of a couple quiet weeks at the office to slip away from Bangkok for two short trips. One was to Cambodia, my first time there, despite working on the border for nearly three years in the ‘80s. Completing that circle felt wonderful. The other journey was one more networking run to Chiang Mai.

Jip dealt with my absences quite well, I thought. When I called to check in, she didn’t ask, “When are you coming home?” as she might have done four or five months ago. Instead I heard about the latest meals (a new staple: yogurt made from goat’s milk), and about how her exercises were going.

But the day after I returned from Chiang Mai, a tantrum erupted suddenly, for no reason I could ever detect. And during the past few days she’s been more anxious than usual about what time I’ll return from work. So I’m hesitating before booking what I had hoped could be a few weeks’ trip to the States a few months from now. We’ll see.

Summer Palace

Chao and I had been biking near a house that he and some friends have rented, about an hour upriver, in the town of Bang Pa-In. It’s a great spot for weekend getaways: nothing to do except bicycle, or watch boats ferry people across, or fish off the balcony, or swim, or drink whiskey, or read in a hammock down below the house, or float in an inner tube, or catch freshwater shrimp, or walk down the street to a large royal estate with a long history.

The rental house ensemble of about 15 people is an eclectic mix of talents and backgrounds. I think I understood the conversation well enough to identify an architect, a public relations guy, a bar owner, and a couple of journalists. That’s what I could hear. What I could see were lots of tattoos, some spaghetti straps, a few very hip pairs of Elvis Costello glasses, and every variety of hair length, including an amazing set of dread locks that when un-turbaned hung down to the back of the guy’s knees.

They’re just now getting started on this adventure, but have signed up for a six-year deal, so amidst the snacking and sipping and listening to Sinatra, big plans were on the table: how to remodel, who has which rights, and so on. I’ll be interested to watch how this second residence influences Chao’s decision about whether to stay in Bangkok, or to move a few hours east, after he is married sometime later this year.

A few weeks earlier, as a tourist, I’d spent a pleasant Saturday strolling through the manicured grounds of the king’s Bang Pa-In palace. (I knew it was going to be a good trip when the hour-long train ride to get up there cost me 20 cents.) But my day at Chao’s palace was even nicer. Always go places with locals, is my motto.

Be Careful What You Wish For

After complaining about heat for much of this month, Saturday I found myself shivering. The weather was classic Seattle: endless gentle rain, along with fleece jacket temperatures. My hands even felt numb.

Of course, having water poured down my back during the annual Songkran festival didn’t help. Chao and I were bicycling on a back street, proud of ourselves for having avoided the mayhem of the main market, where a fire engine had been requisitioned to spray passersby.

But I still couldn’t escape my fate (perhaps I was very naughty with squirt guns in a past life?). As our bike ride was just 100 yards from its destination, an innocent-looking older man approached me, holding a silver bowl. As I pedaled past slowly, he soaked me with a gentle but thorough motion. The rain began not long afterward, before I could dry out.

Heating Up

Jip is having a pretty good summer. Before we moved here, we always assumed this time of year would be a problem. American doctors told us to avoid heat, saying it would likely make her worse. If anything, she has become stronger.

Recently she revived a set of trunk exercises that she hasn’t wanted to do since Seattle. She’s also been asking for the large “standing frame” that we left behind. It’s a device that allows her to get vertical and bear weight.

And while many people here manage this sticky weather by wearing as little as possible, Jip is still sporting long-sleeved shirts.

Meanwhile, I could use a good cool breeze off of Puget Sound about now. This month the sweat just pours off me. The worst is when I’ve been walking outdoors, then stop momentarily where the air is still, like at a covered market. Suddenly I sprout droplets. The Thais around me of course look like they just stepped out of a salon.

This month also makes me think I should take up a less physical sport—say, knitting. Evening soccer practice at the British Club is tolerable (though afterward, despite a shower, I still become a human waterfall while waiting for the SkyTrain).

But our weekly games on Saturday afternoons bring to mind the phrase “mad dogs and Englishmen.” During those full-sun contests, I definitely feel my age. So while Jip thrives in her native climate, I’m just trying to keep a respectable core body temperature. And changing my shirt three times a day.