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.