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.