Gifting

Christmas happened on a canal boat at dusk in a little-visited province about three hours north of Bangkok.

As the boat putted along an irrigation waterway, slightly wider than a two-lane road, we passed men wading neck deep as they repaired their shrimp net contraptions, mothers and children bathing, birds fishing, and godknowswhatelse that was right under my nose but that I couldn’t see because it was so far outside my experience.

Viewed through my citified eyes, the evening was perfect. We were in the countryside, at sunset, eating an excellent meal on a channel that to me could have been cut through the Garden of Eden. Every sight, sound, and smell was new. The boat turned around and we savored it all again in near pitch darkness, navigating with the help of a guy on the bow with a flashlight.

Why this trip on this day in this place? Our office had the day off for Christmas. A guy from work and I decided to visit a friend of his whose job in the States would probably be called “county official.” The position allows him to pull in a few favors now and then.

So when we came calling, he had one of his underlings arrange this little excursion. Three or four people none of us knew came along for the ride, perhaps friends of the boatman. The tab was picked up by somebody we didn’t meet until we got back on land. I didn’t understand what was in it for whom, other than to recognize a you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours arrangement.

The rules of the arrangement got even murkier when the underling then escorted the two of us from the dock to a slightly larger provincial capital. There, the vice governor (also a friend of my friend) set up rooms at the nicest hotel in town and elephant rides the next day, all gratis.

I assume that the next time the hotelier and the elephant owner need a permit, they’ll be reminding the vice governor about “those guys from Bangkok who passed through around the end of last year.” Yet the relationships didn’t seem sleazy or entirely dishonest either. I decided it was best to simply mark it down as a Thai kind of gift giving.

Checking the Box

The other night I attended a fundraiser for Hillary. A couple of friends had talked me into it, hinting that the casual gathering, at a private home in an exclusive part of Bangkok, might be graced by a phone call from Hillary’s husband.

I’m generally not too big on cocktail parties, and I’d never been to a political event where I was tapped for money before. It was funny to me that my initiation to this American institution would take place outside the States.

About 25 people showed up, some seriously into politics, others there for the food. Few were committed to the candidate, which was fine with me. I’d probably be satisfied with any of the Democrats.

I enjoyed the mingling more than I liked talking about the election, which in my mind is still way too far off to be stimulating. Bill didn’t ring, but we did have a speakerphone conversation with Madeline Albright.

So I’ve checked another box on the list of life experiences. Along with eating shark fin soup and riding an elephant, it’s one of those rites of passage I can say I’ve done and therefore don’t have to make a habit of.

Election Season

You can’t pass a telephone pole here this week without seeing a campaign poster. The first-since-the-coup election of new parliament members happens Sunday. If any party gets a majority, it will form the new government. Otherwise, lots of horse trading will determine who gets control of which ministry, including the prime ministry.

Unless of course the current military rulers don’t like the outcome, in which case they’ll either invent a reason for staying in power a bit longer, or swallow their pride and admit that the coup didn’t accomplish what they hoped it would.

Even though I don’t really understand most of what’s going on, this election intrigues me more than the American one. It’s short-lived, for one thing. Candidates in the States have been debating for months, and still have nearly a year to go. Who can sustain excitement that long? Here, the election date wasn’t even decided until mid-October.

Also, the posters are cool. My favorite features a serious looking woman dressed in her university graduation robe, above the caption, “Not Crazy!” Then there’s the Artist Party, whose slogan is “No governing principle is best.”

I was amused to learn that if any of the election winners turn out to be suspected of vote fraud, they’ll receive yellow or red cards, just like in soccer. Either color forces a do-over; red means the candidate is disqualified. So much simpler than asking the Supreme Court to step in or examining hanging chads!

Sitcom in the Village

Maybe this next tale is one of those had-to-be-there moments, I’m not sure. Anyway, I turned it over in my head several times afterwards, grinning each time, so here goes.

Jip’s 97-year-old grandma for years has complained of symptoms that in Thailand are lumped under the term “wind illness.” This generic malady is thought to be related to weather in indirect ways, or perhaps to a lack of balance among wind, water, earth, and fire. Beyond that its causes and cures are the subject of much debate.

When Jip did health research among Cambodian women in Seattle, she found them mentioning it frequently, often when discussing their older female relatives. She even wrote up a short article about wind illness in a medical journal, in order to help Western doctors understand the phenomenon in their Asian patients.

Her expertise came in handy when we traveled to Jip’s village last weekend for what has become our annual pilgrimage. We spent two nights. Jip and Grandma were both in great form, laughing easily, enjoying being together. On the second morning, they both woke up around the same time.

Jip complained of stiff legs. I had just started to help her move them, when from the other room came the sound of Grandma moaning in a way that Jip has apparently been used to since forever. Jip’s mom usually deals with the wind illness attacks, but she was at the market. (Jip knew this without having to ask. Mom never misses the Monday morning market.)

So I was dispatched to massage Grandma and to fix her a dose of “bpaaeng cha na lohm,” a special powder to combat wind illness sold by guys along the roadside. Never mind that I had never touched Grandma in my life. Never mind that she was under a mosquito net, which made it hard for her to see whose hands were reaching for her. Never mind that she’s about 90% deaf, so even if my Thai had been perfect she wouldn’t have gotten much of it.

Jip wasn’t helping matters. She thought the whole situation was hysterical. Which I suppose it was. Between Jip shouting barely intelligible instructions from the other room, and Grandma making sick elephant noises, and my trying to convince Grandma that I knew how much powder to mix into how much water, the scene was made for situation comedy. Or maybe you had to be there.

Face Mask

A few weeks back, one of the caregivers slept on our extra bed instead of going home after her shift. She didn’t ask first, and she seemed to be avoiding me.

I left before she got up the next morning, and the next evening the same thing happened. When I asked the others if everything was OK, they smirked a little, and muttered that she had a headache. No further details.

So I hadn’t seen her face for nearly two days when we finally crossed paths in the kitchen on the second morning. Initially she wouldn’t meet my gaze. When she finally looked up, I saw why. Two of the biggest, darkest black eyes I’d ever seen. Oh, my, I thought. Domestic abuse. She’s afraid to go home. This is going to be tricky.

My first thought was to wonder how this episode was affecting Jip. Surely the caregiver had lots more on her mind than caregiving. But she didn’t seem upset or agitated, and Jip hadn’t said anything about feeling neglected.

I asked how she was doing. She said, “it’s healing fine.” I’m sure it is, I said, but how are things at home? Then it was her turn to be confused. Home? What does home have to do with getting cosmetic surgery done on my nose?

The dark bruises are now completely gone. To be honest I don’t see much difference in her appearance. But she’s very happy with the results, and I’m sure would be glad to pass along the name of her doctor in case you’re interested.

As Good As It Gets

Three perfect days in Cambodia confirmed the reaction I had to Angkor Wat last November—that I could return there every year for the rest of my life. Vinnie, his wife Tina, and I poked around the ruins, ate great, then ran a road race at almost the pace we’d planned beforehand. The cool weather was the icing on the cake.

The temples I’d seen before seemed just as inspiring as the first time. The ones that were new to me quickly became my favorites. We hired a tuk-tuk driver and followed a route that mostly kept us ahead of the crowds, while still leaving plenty of spots unseen for future trips.

Our guest house worked out wonderfully too. The owner got intrigued by the half marathon. He hadn’t had guests run it before, and he enjoys photography. So he offered to drive us out to the race with his camera. Now we’re famous! Check out our pictures online, and check in with Dave next time you pass through Siem Reap:

http://www.peaceofasia.com/Angkormararathon.htm

Thanksgiving with Jip

Jip and I had a memorable Thanksgiving. She started the day by asking for yams with rosemary. They’re not usually on her list, and so hunting them down in the market took a while. When I got back, the caregiver told me that she and Jip had been discussing where Jip and I should go for a walk after the feast.

I couldn’t believe my ears. Jip never goes for a walk. She has left this apartment fewer than ten times this year. But they had decided that Jip and I would be leaving for Railroad Park at around 4 in the afternoon.

It was cool for Bangkok (70s, breezy, think Hawaii weather), and the park wasn’t crowded because nobody else besides a few Americans had the day off. Now and then an old man would shuffle past us, jogging just a little faster than Jip’s wheelchair was rolling.

At first Jip asked me about certain sounds, but eventually she got quiet and I realized she was in that mode so familiar on Thanksgiving: eyes closed, half asleep, digesting. Lots to be thankful for here.

Thanksgiving with CDC

At work we held a “taste of Thanksgiving” on the day before. Lots of Thais said they’d been with CDC for several years, but had never understood the holiday. The main idea of our mini celebration was to share the traditions. We sat in a circle while a handful of Americans told what remembered from growing up with Thanksgiving.

The common themes were the three F’s: family, food, and football. Some people said it was their favorite American holiday because it wasn’t tied to presents or religion. At the end, everybody had a chance to mention something they were grateful for.

We didn’t do a potluck. The traditional foods are tricky to find in Bangkok, so we decided not to pressure anyone into bringing something that wasn’t just right. Instead, experienced volunteers showed up with just enough turkey and stuffing, cranberries, and pumpkin pie for first-timers to get a sense.

It was a nice cross-cultural event. Nobody had to travel through busy airports to get there, and nobody fell asleep on the couch after what was really just a mid-afternoon snack.

International Friendly

What started as small soccer contests after work grew into an invitation to play in Laos. A few dozen of us had competed against each other locally in a round robin tournament among parts of the U.S. embassy community. Last weekend we combined forces to challenge our counterparts in Vientiane. I was one of three to make the trip from CDC.

The gung-ho hosts at the embassy in Laos had thought of everything. We were met on the Thai side of the bridge by a caravan of vehicles with bulletproof windows. Though the vans had just come from the Lao side minutes before, a crew sprayed the hubcaps with disinfectant as we came into the country. (No telling what strains of bird flu and other pandemics-to-be might be lurking in Thailand.)

Soon we were lunching with the ambassador, a pleasant and athletic 50-something. He revealed no secrets about his team’s strategy for the match that afternoon. Later, we wished we’d had better intelligence. Though badly outnumbered on the bench, they forced a tie after 90 minutes of regulation.

The senior diplomats from each side conferred. A growing crowd roared for more: cheerleaders, family members, and people who had heard there would be a party afterwards. The decision was made to play another 15 minutes. When that overtime period ended with the score still 2-2, another one was added.

Each team wangled one more goal. Having played for two hours, a draw seemed more appropriate than it had seemed thirty minutes earlier. Besides, the buffaloes were done roasting. Handshakes were exchanged. All agreed that the cause of international relations had been advanced.

(A bit more detail about this junket appears at hipbelt, a sister blog where travel tales get told.)

Benja Ped

Sobs from Jip’s night-time caregiver woke me in the wee hours. She’d just received a call telling her that her brother had been in a motorcycle accident. I agreed that she should go to the hospital to be of help, while I took over her shift.

The next time we saw her, she had a bump on her forehead. She explained that she had unintentionally collided with a farming tool that her father had been carrying. Later we heard that her mother had been slow to recover from an illness.

I expressed my sympathy for all the bad luck that had seemed to pile up in her life. “Oh, it’s because I’m 25,” she said casually, as if that clarified everything. Jip filled me in. It appears that many Thais believe in what’s known as “benja ped,” an old tradition that suggests one’s 25^th year will be a rough one.

It’s a coming-of-age idea. Historically, adult responsibilities kicked in around then. Today, people sometimes choose to be extra careful, or to make extra merit, during this time of transition. I took an informal poll at the office. Roughly half of those I asked had a memory to share from when they were benja ped (the words mean “25” in Pali, an ancient language from which Thai borrows heavily). The others dismissed it as an outdated folk custom.

Stand-alone Sleeves

In Chicago when I was growing up, we stashed seasonal clothes at the back of the coat closet. That’s where we’d look for mittens, scarves, ski masks, and a circle of wool known as a head band that was mainly designed to keep our ears warm on snowy days.

This month Thai people begin rummaging around for their equivalent of winter garments to handle temperatures that get down as low as 70° F. on the chilliest days. I haven’t seen any mittens or head bands, but several pairs of stand-alone sleeves have appeared. These are designed to supplement a short-sleeved shirt. Slipped on over the wrist, forearm, and elbow, they’re apparently a compromise between wearing a jacket and shivering in the cool season.

No Trace

We’ve all gone back to visit a place years later and said, “Whoa! I can’t believe how much they’ve built this up since the last time I was here … and nobody asked my permission.” Much rarer are the visits when we’ve said, “Whoa! Where did everything go?”

Some friends and I had that kind of experience last weekend, returning to the site of the refugee camp where Jip and I used to work back in the ’80s. I wasn’t expecting to find much—somebody had told me that the formerly huge Cambodian city (at that time it was the second-largest concentration of Khmer on the planet, after Phnom Penh) had become mostly rice fields. But even being prepared to find nothing familiar, we were shocked at the emptiness.

Back then the land held nearly a quarter million people. Today there’s a just a small settlement under the patronage of the king’s youngest daughter—sort of a planned community, with roads, electricity, and water all subsidized. Buffaloes there probably outnumber villagers.

About 95% of the land that I remember as being packed shoulder to shoulder with refugees is now filled with rice, taro, or papaya. No trace of foundations for hospitals, or pieces of leftover blue plastic, or signs that a rice distribution took place, or anything that would let a first-time visitor know how much life had once been lived there.

Reverse Birthday

Jip says she doesn’t care about her birthday and doesn’t like anybody eating cake on her behalf. Instead of receiving presents, she wanted to give a gift this year. She chose a donation to the Home for Disabled Children.

Retreat Month

Courtesy of the U.S. taxpayer I stayed at two fancy resort hotels in the past four weeks. We got lots of work done, but we also had time to play and explore the grounds.

At the first spot, the architecture and the food were Thai, but scratch the surface a little bit and it might have been located anyplace in the world where Westerners enjoy beaches. English was the lingua franca. The behavior code was American. A high-intensity water slide towered above the pool.

The second resort was also by the Gulf of Thailand, but nobody seemed to be going into it. In fact it was hard for me to figure out what the guests were into, because they were mostly speaking Russian, German, or Korean. They hung out, nearly nude, in the lobby.

At the buffet, besides rice and curries, we found goulash and sauerkraut. In the rooms, the cable channels included Deutscher Bundestag and Al Jazeera, as well as broadcasts from Moscow and Malaysia. Signs were sometimes in Russian, sometimes in Thai, but rarely both.

Down the beach was another curiosity: a huge wooden temple known as the Sanctuary of Truth, which I gather was built around 30 years ago by an eccentric Thai billionaire to celebrate the religions of the world. Seems like he chose the right neighborhood for it.

(Not to Mention That It’s a Pretty Good Meditation Technique)

Last night I ran the annual midnight run. The UN Day 10K is coming up in a couple weeks. I know both courses from having raced them a year ago. They’re motivating me keep up my routine and join the half marathon at Angkor Wat in early December. As if I needed more reasons to return to the Cambodian ruins, my childhood buddy Vinnie plans to fly in from Eugene for the event. This schedule could be habit forming.

Groundhog Day

I read recently that American soldiers use the phrase “Groundhog Day” to describe their time in Iraq, in reference to the Bill Murray movie about cyclical and disagreeable circumstances.

Chicago Cubs fans (Bill Murray included) also have a legitimate claim to the phrase. Yesterday marks the 99^th season in a row to end without a baseball crown.

Nobody is shocked, we’ve come to expect it. A friend of mine wrote to say that “it’s all part of the master plan.” Yet I still found myself wanting to tune in to the playoff games, just in case.

In this time zone the games take place at the beginning of the day, while I’m at work. My plan, to stay reasonably productive, was to check a website periodically for score updates. But I soon succumbed to the live radio broadcast over the Internet. My rationalization was that I was less distracted by a continuous feed than by the wondering.

Alas, I needn’t have wondered. Maybe next year? An even 100 years?

There’s never a wish better than this.

Burma Blues

Burma, Thailand’s neighbor to the west, had a mixed week last week. Details about the “saffron revolution” are widely available. Look over this respected local source of Burma news, as well as coverage by the BBC, and The Economist.

The story is worth following and responding to. This century, unlike the last one, isn’t America’s. New superpowers are rising, and it’s instructive to watch how those countries will handle bullies like the ones currently in charge of Burma.

It doesn’t hurt to offer a few suggestions to the regional powers. Check out this petition, among many others making the rounds.

Thailand’s response to this past week’s events is also important. Historically, the leadership here has been reluctant to criticize a major business partner (nearly half of Burma’s exports end up in Thailand). But goods aren’t the only things that find their way across the border. Untreated diseases, drugs, and hundreds of thousands of migrants and refugees give the Thai government countless reasons to get more involved in its neighbor’s business than it has in the past.

Boe Grows Up Down Under

Jip’s niece Boe, whom I’ve known since she was hardly half my height, graduated from college last year. Since then she’s been stuck in a job as a clerk at a Bangkok shipping company.

A few weeks ago she got herself a special visa to New Zealand, known as the working holiday visa. It’s designed for twenty-somethings, to help them enter a country they might not normally be able to visit easily, with the idea that they’ll spend a year doing two or three short working stints, interspersed with travel. I think it’s perfect for her.

Her parents and grandma probably feel a little more hesitant than I do, seeing as she is an only child and an only grandchild. She’s left Thailand only once before, a quick trip to Korea.

The first few email messages from her sound upbeat. After two weeks with the Kiwis, she seems to be enjoying the adjustment. She misses Thai food, but otherwise she’s not homesick. If anyone knows somebody there Boe could share housing with some day—empty nesters with a spare room, or a young single—drop me a line.

Blast from the Past #2

Ya, Waew, and Jieb called me by speaker phone this morning, while I was at work. These are the women who took care of Jip the longest since our arrival in Bangkok. They’d gotten together on a rare simultaneous day off from their new jobs.

Our conversation delighted me, and not just because I could report to them that Jip’s routines have been pretty stable for several weeks now. I was pleased that they had wanted to check in at all. Their only reason for calling was to ask how we are doing, what’s new at our apartment, and so on.

Hearing from them confirmed what I know but sometimes forget—that we’re pretty fun people to work for. People miss us after they’ve moved on.

Blast from the Past

I had a bit of business in the town where Jip and I met way back when. It wasn’t urgent, but I enjoy any excuse to revisit the Cambodian border. I phoned a guy I’ve talked to maybe three times in the last 20 years, just to see if he wanted to make a day trip with me. He also worked there then, and I know he shares my nostalgic tendencies.

Before I could even voice my invitation, he said, “Dude, how you getting to the reunion this afternoon? You’re welcome to drive along with us.” Reunion?

Turned out that the former chief of the UN unit that oversaw the refugee camps was briefly back in Bangkok, and for only the second time ever, a get-together of old border hands had hastily been planned. Word hadn’t reached me, but the gods must have meant me to attend, considering the coincidence.

Although not many faces were familiar, striking up conversations was easy. The degrees of separation among people associated with the UN Border Relief Operation, as it was known, are generally three or less. Names and acronyms and exaggerations flowed freely.

We used to joke with each other in those days that we were “ruined for life.” In other words, having been touched by the refugees and their stories, we couldn’t look at our own lives and countries the same way again. We meant the phrase as a positive thing.

Indeed, nearly everyone I spoke with at the reunion had sought further ways to ruin themselves. Among the non-Thai at the event, many had continued to live and work in SE Asia after the camps closed, rather than return to Europe or the States or wherever. It seemed that none of us were strangers, even if we’d never met before.

Wat Phra Buddha Bat

During Labor Day Weekend I spun up to Saraburi Province, about two hours north of Bangkok, to check out one of Thailand’s oldest and most important temples. I expected to find tradition, housed amidst crumbling walls. Instead, the place brims with young energy, and it gleams. How hip is it? The temple’s website address is featured on the entrance sign.

Read all the details of this quick excursion at hipbelt, holybasil’s sister site devoted just to travel.

Tuuk Chalok

Just when I think I’m caught up on major aspects of Thai culture that differ from my own, something comes along, slaps me across the face, and says “Duh! You mean nobody ever told you that…?”

This week I was riding in a colleague’s car, talking about car insurance. She mentioned that she’d had several fender benders, and was concerned that soon she would have to change insurance companies. “Or maybe just change cars … this one isn’t tuuk chalok.”

I asked what the phrase meant. Instead of explaining it directly, she pointed to a hand-written sign in the back window of the car ahead of us. Traffic was barely moving (in other words, a normal day in Bangkok), and I had time to pick out the words, “This car is red.”

But the car wasn’t red, it was black. My friend explained that probably the owner had come to believe that the color of the car wasn’t a good fit (tuuk chalok), perhaps because of a string of bad luck similar to hers. Rather than re-paint the car, or replace it with a new one, this owner had decided to publicly claim (or perhaps announce to the car’s spirit? I wasn’t sure) that the car’s true color was not what it appeared.

I love this notion that people can changes their destinies through a declaration. It challenges the reputation some Asians have among Westerners for unquestioningly accepting fate. Thai people often change their names from one that is not tuuk chalok, usually in consultation with a respected monk.

Not long ago a group of us went to a restaurant where the front door faced west. That direction (sunsets, finality, death, and so on) is considered inauspicious by some people in Thailand. But no worries—above our table was a sign announcing that “this restaurant faces east.”

Better Than Blood Doping

Beginning a slow jog the other night, I waved to the security guard. Our exchange followed the usual script:

He: How many minutes tonight?

Me: Oh, I’ll probably go for about ___ minutes (I make my best guess)

He: OK, I’m timing you!

Me: Ha, ha, ha.

I reached the end of the block and rain started to sprinkle lightly. When the lightning began a few minutes later, I wondered if I should turn around sooner than I’d expected. But I welcomed the break from muggy weather, so I kept going. (On typical days, considering Bangkok’s sooty air, I’ve even thought that running in this city might be doing my body more harm than good.)

Before long the downpour was in full force. Puddles merged to become small streams. Heading into the wind, I had trouble keeping my eyes open.

I turned into a long side street and had the road to myself. Drivers were deciding to wait it out. Running to the end of the street and back took about five minutes. Nobody else seemed to be about.

My shoes were heavy with water, but it didn’t make any sense to take them off. My shirt, on the other hand, seemed unnecessary. I hung it on a tree and began another lap. It was tempting to bare all, as it was dark and I was practically naked anyway.

Seven laps later, I had transformed into a world class runner. My pace under those inspiring conditions had gotten so fast that I was sure my watch had stopped when I checked my times under the streetlights at the end of the block. Best of all, I felt I could go forever.

The guard couldn’t believe it when I finally returned home, having been away about twice as long (and maybe three times as far) as I’d predicted. Another reason why the rainy season is becoming my favorite.

Been There Done That

Took a trip this past weekend to a place, Kanchanaburi, I’d remembered fondly from twenty years past. Read all about it on holybasil’s sister site devoted only to travel, hipbelt.

Gender Bender

About once a month I get a massage at one of the various storefronts in our neighborhood that offer several different menu items: foot, whole body, head only, with oil, with herbs, and so on. These places are all above board, but the routines, decor, and prices vary widely.

They also come and go—I suspect that not many of the proprietors have had business training. This turnover rate means that I’m always continuing the quest for the perfect massage. I know that there is no such thing. I also know that I’ll never run out of possibilities.

This week I tried a new spot, located on a lower floor in an apartment building that rents to people of several nationalities. About half the time my masseuse turns out to be a man, but this time I wasn’t really sure at first. Trying not to stare, I kept sneaking glances, but s/he wasn’t giving me any clues. Loose clothing, unisex haircut, never said a word. I wasn’t even clear about whether or not s/he was Thai.

Eventually the kneading and pressing that characterizes massage here began to get closer to some classified areas. For my peace of mind, I sort of wanted to know a little more about who I was dealing with. I reasoned that perhaps the rules at this establishment were different from what I was used to.

I cleared my throat and tried to communicate in Thai an idea something like, “Go easy—that place on my upper thigh is a little tender.” In fact the pressure wasn’t too bad. I simply hoped that s/he would answer, so I could tell if this was a soprano or a baritone. “Why? Did you get injured there?” he said in a deep voice.

Ah. Relaxation came easily after I had a gender to assign to my masseuse. He did a pretty good job, despite a few failed attempts to bend my body into a pretzel shape. (This guy was athletic, and I think he wanted to show off his own flexibility, without perhaps stopping to assess my own lack of it.) His appearance might be a fashion statement that I would be able to interpret more easily if I was still in my twenties.

Afterward I went to the front desk to pay up. Normally I like to hand a tip directly to the person who worked on me, so that I’m sure it reaches them. I waited for a few minutes, but my guy was nowhere to be seen. As I was putting on my shoes, an angry-looking woman customer stormed into the room from the place in the back where the massages happen. She was wearing a head scarf of the kind seen in moderate Islamic countries.

In English she said to the boss, “Give me phone.”

The boss smiled but looked surprised. “Is everything OK?”

“Give me phone. I want talk my son.”

Soon she was shouting into the phone, “They give me man. I come here get massage. I no want man. They trick me. He not speak. They think I not know. But I know! (Pause.) How I know? I no need check. You not believe? You check! You come downstairs check!”

As I left the building I saw a young man trudge out of the elevator and head for the shop. Something told me that nobody in there was going to be able to relax for a while.

Lesson Learned

Here’s how not to study Thai language:

Carry around a pack of flashcards you made over a dozen years ago, pull them out once a day while riding the bus, quiz yourself, reward yourself for correct answers by retiring that card from the pack.

I’d been relying solely on this method of language study for about a year, when a Thai friend at work said (with unusual directness for this country), “Considering the number of opportunities you’ve had to get good at it, your Thai is really quite poor!” The truth stings.

Last year I studied with a tutor whose style I liked because, despite learning from him for over three months, I never knew whether or not he could speak English. He had a knack for being able to explain in Thai nearly anything we wanted to talk about, using a vocabulary that I could follow. It was as if he knew exactly which words I already knew.

Then Jip and I moved, going to his school wasn’t as convenient, and I convinced myself that I could do just as well on my own with the ancient flashcards. Gradually it hit me that I wasn’t graduating many cards from the pile. Words I thought I’d mastered yesterday were gone by tomorrow.

Last week I got a new teacher. During our three-times-weekly lessons, she supplies the English word if I ask her for it, but otherwise we only speak in Thai. I make new flashcard for each of the words she gives me. Lo and behold, I haven’t forgotten a single one. Words stick much better when you learn them because you need them.

Wat Huay Mongkol

Not far from the resort town of Hua Hin, where the royal family has established several palaces over the years, sits a shiny new temple in honor of a long-dead but still revered Thai monk by the name of Luang Phor Tuad.

We turned into the main entrance to this shrine, passing parking lots devoted solely to tour buses, and came face to face with maybe the largest statue of a real human being I’d ever come across. (Think of Lenin in Red Square, only about three times bigger.)

Naturally I got curious what all the fuss was about, and how this destination temple came to be built where it is (the monk himself hailed from a province nearly 1,000 kilometers further south) and at this moment in history.

Chao and Lek’s attempts at answering my questions involved lots of Thai vocabulary I’d never heard, so when we got home I also asked Google. In response to entering the names of the monk and the temple as keywords I got dozens of websites devoted to the sale of amulets, charms, and talismans.

Recently a particular style of amulet known as Jatukham took this country by storm. At one point sales reportedly accounted for about one percent of the gross domestic product. The beliefs surrounding them seem to have more to do with the supernatural than with Buddhism (although those two ways of life are often intertwined here). They’re also linked in some way that I don’t completely follow to a 100-plus-year-old policeman who died earlier in the year.

Folks sports these pocket watch-sized medallions, hung outside clothing from specially designed necklaces, in the belief that they’ll be protected from car crashes or similar mishaps. Jatukham seemed especially plentiful in the south, compared to Bangkok.

Chao has written about them for his newspaper, and seems also to be interested in their investment potential. Wat Huay Mongkhol is apparently an epicenter for their manufacture and trade. No doubt there’s much more to the craze than is dreamt of in my philosophy.

Leaving Jip Behind

When the subject first came up, Jip said she didn’t want to come with us to Ban Krud for the anniversary of her dad’s passing. But an hour before we were to head out, it struck her that if she went along, she wouldn’t be alone that night with a caregiver she is still learning to trust. Out of the blue she said, “I want to go too.”

At that point, a change in plans would have been possible but tricky. We’d have needed to find a van, waited half a day for her to finish her bathroom and shower routine, organized her food, and packed a really big bag of stuff.

I knew she wasn’t completely serious about wanting to take the trip. Yet I still felt terrible leaving her behind on a journey that was about family and her dad. In fact I felt a bit like her dad when I told her, “next time.”

When we returned to Bangkok, she was smiling and calm. I’m sure she had no regrets about skipping the long drive. Her mom returned with us for a short visit, which in my mind made up for Jip having missed out on the ceremony itself.

Not Kansas

On the way south we stopped at a former royal retreat, built three kings ago, known as the Mrigadayavan Palace. These days the buildings and the surrounding grounds have been renamed in honor of a current princess known for her environmental stewardship.

The three of us rode bicycles along shaded paths, and explored a boardwalk built through a mangrove swamp that the princess herself helped plant. I learned that this essential shellfish habitat used to be much more plentiful along tropical coastlines that it is now.

I also learned that the name of Jip’s province translates to “land of many mountains.” I’d always thought of the area mostly as an endless beach. Yet among the high hills on either side of the road from Bangkok are lots of craggy peaks that somehow I’d never noticed before.

No Place Like Home

Jip’s younger brother Chao, his wife Lek, and I went to a ceremony remembering Jip’s dad in her village last weekend. It was the first time I’d been to Ban Krud without Jip.

In an odd way it also felt like my home. I couldn’t walk a hundred yards without being invited in for a chat. Jip’s older brother, Jieb, hosted a barbecue for some neighbors. Everyone there remembered me from our wedding ten years ago.

Jip’s mom and sisters-in-law put together a lunch for the nine monks who chanted in memory of Jip’s dad. Jieb lit the candles, Chao offered the monks first helpings of food, and I handed out envelopes containing small gifts. Just as at Chao and Lek’s wedding last year, I was considered part of the family in an easy, natural way. My role was to do what Jip would have done had she been there.

Ban Krud is a lovely place to be from. The ancient trees along the road near the railroad station are as welcoming an entrance as can be found anywhere. They’re also full of brilliant birds—no wonder Jip became a serious birder.

So How’s Jip Now That I’m Back?

Jip managed fine in my absence, all things considered. She was grouchy for about a day. Then she figured out that without me around, she could push the envelope on a few obsessions that she knows I don’t approve of. I suspect the caregivers spoiled her by letting her brush her teeth for as long as she liked, and by putting up with an endless clothes selection routine every time. With that kind of pampering, what’s not to like about having your husband out of the country?

Lately she acts like a rebellious teenager. She tells people what she thinks, stays up past midnight, demands that her parent (more and more my role) stays out of her business. I have to hand it to her—the strategies she uses to stay in control of her life are remarkably inventive. I often wish that creativity could be channeled into other pursuits as well.

Like what? People often ask whether she would enjoy listening to books or monks on tape. A few years back, when she first dealt with low vision, she used to spend a couple hours a day with recordings, or listening to people read aloud. Now her attention span for that kind of thing is limited to about five minutes. Occasionally she’ll agree to let me share some of the email messages and letters I’ve received; rarely, she’ll ask to answer one

Her vocation remains exercise, which she does between 5 and 8 every afternoon, rain or shine. She also averages three hours daily on oral health care, which I suppose makes it her avocation.

This is our life.

Back Home

When I taught school I used to always observe my feelings carefully during the first few days after returning from a long break. I figured that if I wasn’t happy to be with my students after relaxing with friends and family, then perhaps I should consider a change (new grade, new school, new career?) during the following school year.

That system worked well as a gauge for how much I was enjoying my current setting. By that measure, I’m in a very good place at the moment. Coming back to Bangkok feels just right. As I jogged down our little street on the first morning following my arrival, I found myself drinking in all kinds of delightful little details of Thai life.

I’m not taking anything away from the U.S., which was lovely and battery-charging and blissfully free of humidity.

It’s just that it feels great to be back in the Big Mango. People are smiling and sauntering. Dogs are lying on the sidewalk. In my head is a list of dishes I want to order at my favorite eating spots.

Nonstop

Sprinting around America for the first time in many years reminds me of returning from college over my first Christmas break. So many friends! So few responsibilities! So much hanging out! Not really doing anything, but getting so much done!

In this case I returned to college, for my 25^th reunion. (Note how young we all look.)

Then I spent a week catching up with more than 35 family members as they whirlwinded through our favorite haunt in Michigan.

Quality and quantity time!

Now I’m in Seattle, working the phone. A nice bonus of passing through on short notice is that people make room in their schedules. If I still lived here, and I were to call about getting together, most likely I’d hear, “Sure, a couple months from now we’ve got a free evening.” But when I say, “I’m here till Sunday,” then suddenly the calendar opens up.

One Down

Yesterday a caregiver quit. She’d been on the job just over a week.

Jip’s brother Chao assured me on the phone that the remaining two are confident they can manage without replacing her. Jip likewise says she would rather not look for a new person until I get back.

I was surprised we lost her. This woman was the one who called in sick on her second day (she explained when she returned that she hadn’t wanted Jip to catch her cold). I had also ridden the bus with her once, after she’d worked the night shift. Her agency was located close to my office.

On the bus she and I had talked about food (the Thai equivalent of discussing the weather). We’d gotten to know a little more about each others’ families. She had even convinced me to drop by the agency and meet some of her fellow caregivers.

I thought, “We’re bonding. This is fun. She likes Jip. This is a keeper.”

Shows what I know.

First Impression

Getting on a plane for the U.S. seemed an unlikely prospect a few days ago. But suddenly there I was on the runway in Bangkok, listening to the cabin crew’s spiel. It hit me that I hadn’t told my friend Sarah that I had a long layover in San Francisco. Maybe she’d be spontaneous enough to drive out to the airport there after work for a chat! How could I get word to her?

No problem—my fancy phone knows how to send email. I zipped off a message, my seatmate covering for me as the no-electronic-devices police came down the aisle. Next I had to figure out if she got the message.

The phone didn’t work anymore in San Francisco. I saw a guy using a laptop and asked him about wi-fi access for my own computer. He said that if all I wanted to do was check my email, it would be simpler to just use his machine.

After he saw me write down Sarah’s cell number (she’d gotten my message, and was looking around for me), he offered the use of his phone, too. By then the guy and I were technology buddies. As we sat there, waiting for Sarah to walk over to that part of the airport, he held up his phone and said, “you want to watch some TV?”

“On your phone?” I said.

“I got 500 channels.”

Up till then I’d been pretty proud of the neat 21^st century trick I’d just pulled off—imagine arranging a same-day meetup, from halfway around the planet, without speaking a word! But now this guy’s gadget was kicking my gadget’s butt.

We watched the Dodgers game, live from L.A. They were playing the Mets. The screen was pretty small, so he plugged the phone into the laptop and voila! Now we could pick out the players’ names on their uniforms and everything. He noticed that I kept looking up, checking for Sarah.

“You know, sometimes I get distracted too, when I’m watching,” he said. “So I just record the show and play it back later.” On the phone. Whoa. Welcome back to the States.

Status Report

This evening, things have calmed. Jip is still not happy I’m going, but at least the hunger strike was short lived.

A curious side effect of this disease, at least in Jip’s case, is that the present mostly trumps the past and the future. She doesn’t forget things, the way Alzheimer’s people do, but in most conversations her focus returns to the hereandnow after just a few minutes. Maybe it’s nature’s way of preventing her from being overwhelmed by the big picture.

Or maybe she’s much more spiritually evolved than I’ll ever be. Strike that. She is definitely more spiritually evolved than I’ll ever be.

Green Light

After watching the current three-person team over the past 48 hours, I feel confident enough to proceed with plans to leave Thailand for three weeks …

...and to tell Jip that I’m going. Before this morning, I had thought I could save her needless worry by delaying this announcement. To be really honest, I was also afraid of her reaction. Jip continues to be unpredictable in both good and bad ways.

For instance, she surprised me pleasantly the other day by saying she’d like to come along to an evening talk at the Siam Society. She’d attended once before, about 18 months ago, when we lived near enough that we could walk over there together. This time the journey required a taxi and a bit more hassle, but she didn’t complain once, and seemed to really enjoy the lecture.

Dealing with a trip to the other side of town, though, is not in the same league as dealing with my going to the other side of the planet. I figured she wouldn’t be too happy about it. I even rehearsed my speech before finally springing the news of my departure.

“Good idea,” she said, after I let her in on the secret I’d been carrying around, “you need some time with your family now and then.”

What? I wrote out talking points so I could defend them … and she agrees with them?

Of course things didn’t turn out to be that simple. An hour later, Jip had thought things over and decided that maybe I didn’t need to return from the U.S. She tried to remove her wedding ring, but she couldn’t get it off. Not long after that, she thought of a few other threats.

Underneath her anger, I’m sure, is fear. What if I don’t come back? What if the caregivers forget the routine? What if … you name it?

Down to the Wire

I must really need a vacation. These days whenever the phone rings, I dread that it will be a caregiver, calling to quit. Or if one of them is a few minutes late for their shift, I begin to worry that they’re never going to show up.

These fears, unfortunately, are founded on experience. Since the departure of our two veterans three weeks ago, we’ve met nine different people. Some stay just a day. Others stay a week and then tell me (rarely face to face) they’ve decided their commute is too long, or their stomach problems are acting up, or whatever.

Hiring this time has been more stressful than usual because my trip back to the States is in doubt. I’m supposed to leave next Monday, but I’ve again had a very tough time finding—and keeping—a team of three who will have spent enough time with Jip before then.

Earlier this week, I was really sure I would have to cancel. We had one person no-show (disappeared without a trace after her first day), one call in sick on her second day (I was sure the “fever” was invented, but luckily she did re-appear), and one limp in 30 minutes late (motorcycle accident).

I took a day off (no choice, really—I’d told the limper, who I thought was my sole remaining employee, to go get an x-ray) and scrambled to find two more caregivers. Jip of course knows that I’ve been working the phones, but I still haven’t told her about my travel plans.

Normally, taking care of Jip for 12 hours is tiring enough—these last few weeks have been a recipe for exhaustion. But yesterday another pair showed up from the agency. One looks good. Maybe I’ve finally got a team that will stay at least the rest of the month. Stay tuned.

Kreng jai

It used to be that I shared both highlights and lowlights of my day with Jip. I knew that when I came home in a low mood, Jip would usually be a great listener and would help to change my outlook with an empathetic reply.

She was also a natural at a type of consideration that the Thai call kreng jai. If you kreng jai someone, you consider their feelings first, before thinking of your own feelings. It means being worried that your actions might inconvenience someone, and thus acting extra selfless.

The Thai word implies more than its closest English equivalent, because kreng jai is also connected to social rules and order, family and group harmony, and the cultural importance of avoiding conflict and maintaining hierarchies.

These days the kreng jai lobe of Jip's brain doesn't work quite the same way that it did, and so I normally keep my bad moods to myself. Yet this past week I came home from a frustrating outing, and for some reason I shared with Jip why my evening hadn't gone so well.

Instead of changing the subject to tooth brushing or some more immediate concern, she paused and said, "John, that sounds like small stuff. I think you can let it go." I was so shocked to hear her thinking of my feelings that it was easy to do exactly what she suggested.

The next morning she even asked me whether or not I was over my annoyance. I'll be living off that highlight for weeks.

Gulf

The book group’s last two selections have been set in India and Afghanistan (The God of Small Things and The Places in Between). Reading them has made me appreciate Thailand more than ever.

I found nearly every one of the characters in these books to be off-putting. No doubt they would feel the same way about me.

Normally, learning about other cultures makes me want to pack my bags and go see for myself. This time, I felt quite content to stay put and continue adapting to the Thai ways.

Those ways are just different enough from the ways I grew up with to be interesting, but not different enough to be unattractive. But India and Afghanistan strike me as just a little too weird.

I know these countries are big places. Like the U.S., probably anything you say about them is true somewhere. But as long as I’m generalizing shamelessly, let’s look at conflict resolution. Here in Thailand, people often go so far out of their way to avoid disagreement that problems linger and fester because nobody wants to address them.

I’ll take that approach over an attitude that turns even small stuff into a fight. Nearly everyone in the books went around shouting, or preparing to take revenge. Me, I’d rather tiptoe.

Or consider an everyday event like meeting someone you haven’t seen for a while. In The Places in Between, the author describes normal people reciting long prescribed speeches that sound to me like high-level diplomatic protocol. I know that kind of drill probably isn’t as common in real life as it appears in the book, and I know Americans’ impatience with decorum and formality makes problems for them in many parts of the world. Nonetheless, I prefer just putting my hands together in front of my face, as the Thais do, than going through a long spiel every time I run across a friend.

Just one more reminder that the world needs to do lots more cross cultural communication. Next month our group tackles Nine Parts of Desire, about Muslim women. The gap between the cultures described in that book and the one I live with here is even wider than the ones in our previous titles. No doubt this medicine is good for me, but I’m still glad Jip and I met where we did.

Dubious Dessert

Last year the New York Times profiled an American expat in Bangkok who explained his permanent move here by saying that he “didn’t want to live anywhere they didn’t have durian.” I read that and thought, I can think of better reasons to live in Thailand.

But that was before my recent conversion. This year’s durian crop has shown me the light. (Durian, for the uninitiated, is a seasonal fruit that, as the locals say, “smells like a toilet, tastes like a dream.”)

First I had to get past its appearance, which is best described as a cross between a medieval weapon and a sea creature. Then there is the odor: rank enough that many hotels in SE Asia post signs banning durian on their premises.

Even connoisseurs prefer that the fruit not appear on the table until the other parts of the meal are finished, in order not to mix smells. I learned this the hard way the other day, when my cafeteria companions strongly encouraged me to sit elsewhere. I had shown up with a tray that included both a main course and durian for dessert.

At first the flavor was so different from anything I’d ever eaten, and the texture so un-fruit-like, that I gave up trying to acquire a taste for it. But this year it hit me that durian’s closest American cousin is cake frosting. If you hold your nose and close your eyes, you might easily imagine that you’re eating one of those roses made of frosting that appear on the corners of some big birthday cakes. Not for sissies.

Bribes and Other Dirty Tricks

As the outgoing caregivers train a new set to replace them, the apartment is awfully crowded. I returned home the other day to find six women in the kitchen. Clearly the situation called for me to vacate and go for a run.

In an ideal world this changeover would be happening a couple months from now, after I return from a planned trip to the States in June. In fact, I tried to convince our departing duo to stay until I got back, using an assortment of carrots and sticks.

When they held to the end of May as their planned departure date, I even resorted to divide and conquer tactics. I suspected that one of them cared more about money than the other, and so I took her aside and suggested that she could let her cousin go home ahead of her, then follow in July as a relatively rich woman.

She thought about the offer but ultimately passed, perhaps concluding that it served me more than it served her. And so Jip will get good care from good people while I’m away, but they won’t be the people who know her best of all.

This rundown of our rehiring is really just the Cliff’s Notes version. To understand all the gruesome details of putting together a new care team, you’d have to buy me dinner and stay all the way through dessert. Let’s just say that this tale has many layers. Sometimes I need to go for a run just to clear my head of it.

Lineup Change

Our caregiver scene has been complex ever since I tried to expand the team to three people. For one reason or another, we can’t seem to find, or keep, anyone as reliable or competent as the initial pair. But at least that pair has stuck around, meaning that most of the time Jip enjoys consistency, something she cares about more than almost anything.

These two cousins have evolved a gentle way of deflecting Jip’s angry moments. They have a large reserve of patience, which lately is the most important job requirement. Sadly, they announced recently that it’s time for them to move on. They say they miss their extended family and want to return to the village.

For the moment Jip is saying good riddance, grumbling about “those two from the north … mutter mutter mutter … sick of them … mutter mutter … always talking in their language ….” To me this talk sounds like that strategy many of us humans employ when faced with losing what we really care about. We convince ourselves that it was never all that important anyway.

Yet these are people who have spent many more hours than I have with Jip during the time we’ve lived in Thailand. They can read her mind. When they’re around, there are no surprises (ideal for us, but maybe a little tiresome for them). I suspect that the minute they leave, Jip will change her tune and start to sing their praises. I miss them already.

Umbrella Farm

Wet weather here the past few days, especially during commuting hours. Even if only to get from the parking lot to the office door, everyone has needed an umbrella. They then plant them on the stair landing to dry, as pictured above.

New Tack

Jip has been mostly upbeat since I’ve been back from China. During previous trips, she has sometimes stored up complaints, only to dump them all at once during the first day or two after my return.

This time, she hasn’t had a laundry list. The only negatives on her mind have been reminders for our new caregiver (have I mentioned that we found a third person to add to the team?) about particular ways Jip likes things to be done.

Even these concerns have been muted, free of rant. She said to me this week with a set jaw and a grim expression, “John, we have to have a family meeting about this new caregiver.”

Whoa! Deferred criticism! This is really something.

Announcing Hipbelt

I took a short holiday to Beijing last week. My timing was good for lots of reasons. Two of my aunties were passing through, the weather was perfect, and the country is going out of its way to welcome visitors as it prepares for next year’s Olympics.

Jip handled my being gone pretty well. I checked in often via skype. The only time she seemed upset was was when one of the caregivers had shown up for a shift two hours early. Apparently this change in the routine was enough to upset her sense of balance.

Starting to write about the trip reminded me that for about a year now I’ve kept a separate journal about my travels. Mostly it’s a way to help me remember where I’ve been in Asia (at my advanced age, sometimes I can’t come up with the title of the novel I finished the day before). Writing also helps freeze some images in my mind, because I don’t travel with a camera other than the little one on my phone (I find they get in the way of really seeing a place).

Recently I put this travel journal online, at a separate blog address. Journey over to http://hipbelt.blogspot.com if you’re interested. (I’ve also put a link in the sidebar on the right side of this page). The most recent entry is about Beijing. I also wrote about short trips I took with friends or family to Laos, Suphanburi, Nakhonchaisri, Samut Songkhram, Khao Prah Viharn, Angkor Wat, Lopburi, and Ko Si Chang.

I’ll keep adding to hipbelt as I keep wandering around Southeast Asia.