Hospice at Home

Jip’s Grandma has lived nearly a century. Yet when we visit the family home, she always comes across as the healthiest of the three generations of Thai women in the room. Mom needs help to do certain tasks because of her arthritis (though it’s hardly noticeable because her spirit is so strong). Jip of course has lost lots of abilities.

Grandma’s main limitations, other than poor hearing, have mostly seemed self imposed. She would say that she has earned the right to take it easy and be waited on. To her, the idea that older people should hang on to their independence as long as possible is ridiculous. She used to gently complain to Jip that a “younger” (early 80s) woman across the road got more frequent “service” from her family than Grandma did.

This month Grandma is finally getting her wish, although she may not have much awareness of it. Over the last several weeks, age has finally caught up with her. She appears not to really be able to tell the difference between night and day, sleep and being awake. Mom has hired a neighbor to help with some of the basic needs.

When Chao, Jip, Murph, and I drove down last weekend, life was happening all around Grandma. She lay on a small mattress near the center of the living room, but she wasn’t always the center of attention. She was still surrounded by all of the things she has always felt a responsibility to look after—various heirlooms, a little white dog named Diamond, maybe some gold stashed away somewhere—but now they were other people’s problems.

She can’t walk or feed herself anymore, but those changes don’t especially concern anyone, except possibly Diamond, who spends much of his day curled up nearby her. Everyone simply accepts that her time is coming soon. Now and then a neighbor drops by “just to see the old person.” (Grandma may be the longest living resident of Ban Krud.)

During our first visit there after returning to live in Thailand, Grandma told Jip that the two of them might never see each other again. Looking at her sparkling eyes back then, the prediction seemed hard to believe. This time, Grandma is no longer able to say it, but she doesn’t have to. We’re all ready.

Born on Christmas Day

My sister Murph is in Bangkok for two weeks, so Jip and I were able to celebrate Christmas with family for the first time in a while. Putting up a tree in the living room seemed in order. Murph and I inspected the plastic imitation-spruces at the department store but couldn’t bring ourselves to go that route. Instead we opted for long strings of fairy lights, which we strung on two tallish tropical plants that we brought inside from the balcony. With a few ornaments on the branches and a few presents underneath, the trees almost looked like they came from a single stem.

The caregivers by this point are like part of the family, and none of them had really ever had a proper Christmas morning. The one working the night shift happily agreed to stay a little late, and the one working the afternoon came a little early, bearing a fine assortment of Thai treats. By 10:30, all three were definitely proclaiming tidings of comfort and joy.

We let nothing us dismay as we gathered in the kitchen for a good feed, featuring coconut milk something-or-others, sparkling cider, guavas, and a few other things that have never appeared together on any holiday menu that I’ve ever seen. Jip didn’t partake, but she enjoyed listening to the squeals coming from the groaning table. More shrieking followed as we opened a few presents.

By noon things were back to normal. Jip’s daily routine was well underway; the three bottles of perfume that the caregivers had specially requested from America were stashed away where Jip didn’t have to smell them. Murph and I headed off to a quirky attraction that attempts to offer a one-stop tour of the entire country’s most important architecture. The Ancient City’s scale models are placed roughly where they belong on a big piece of Thailand-shaped land our near the airport. Our full afternoon of bike riding past palaces, stupas, and temples was another Christmas first.

Setbacks

In the past couple of months Jip has had a couple of flare-ups caused by her disease—the first backsliding we’ve seen in more than three years. Luckily, she seems to be back to normal now. But these episodes sadden me after such a long period of stability. The caregivers and I have talked together about the possibility that their jobs could get harder in the future.

One unusual sign was Jip’s number-than-usual mouth, which made eating and speaking more difficult. She didn’t seem bothered, but the women all mentioned their concern. That lasted about three weeks. Later, Jip had another low sodium episode. It was easy to fix, but before we turned it around, for about half a day she looked pretty woozy and unresponsive, which was new to this group of caregivers. One in particular seemed quite spooked by the whole thing.

I’d like to think these setbacks will be temporary and rare. They’re also a reminder us to treasure each day. I know it’s a cliché, but happiness is a choice. Jip has always been the greatest teacher of that lesson. It’s best for us to be thankful for all the stuff that is working well.

Getting Exercised in Indochina

Back to Angkor Wat for another chance to run among the temples. Several mates joined up this year, multiplying the fun. In fact the race came at the end of an athletic week. Vinnie, my pal since fifth grade, and his wife Tina met up with me in Vietnam to do some biking through the Mekong Delta. We then speedboated up the river to Phnom Penh, and then went on to Siem Reap by car.

Two years ago, the three of us arrived at Angkor Wat together from the Thailand side. Vinnie and Tina, whose home is in the U.S., enjoyed that trip enough to come back for a rerun. No telling what kind of sporty Southeast Asian adventure we’ll dream up for 2011.

Thanksgiving Delicacy

Yesterday we had the day off work because our office follows the American holiday schedule. I prepared lots of Thanksgiving food for Jip and myself, expecting we would probably have a quiet, early meal around 2 or 3 in the afternoon. Jip doesn’t like to eat much in the evening.

But she surprised me by saying that she already had a lunch plan and that my food would have to wait until after her exercises, maybe around 7pm. OK, I said, but I better go out and get something to eat now before I faint (I’ve learned not to argue about the small stuff).

I ended up at a place near our apartment that has always caught my eye but I’d never gone in before. It seemed like they could whip up something quick. Then I realized that it was mostly a Chinese menu, specializing in dim sum.

Dim sum is fine if you know what you’re doing, or if they bring around the cart and you can point, but neither case was true, so I decided to keep it simple and ask if they had any Thai salad.

He replied that yes, they had salad, but I didn’t catch what kind. The word he used didn’t sound familiar, but I figured I can always learn something new. Then the plate arrived and it didn’t look familiar either: kind of opaque and a little bit noodle-like, but not exactly.

The taste wasn’t familiar. If you want the truth, it was a little like chewing on shredded plastic. I was faced with that decision you sometimes arrive at with celery: spit it out or swallow the undigested fibers.

After a few swallows I thought maybe I didn’t really need to finish this meal. Food at most places in Thailand has the advantage of being cheap enough that you can always give up and start over if it’s not working for you. So I paid up and walked off, thinking about where I would go for my second lunch.

On my way out I happened to spot the name of my dish on a hand-written chalkboard menu. I recognized the word for salad, but the words “maaeng ga phroon” meant nothing to me. I figured I’d ask a Thai friend at work to translate. In case it was something really weird, I didn’t want Jip to know what I’d eaten.

My friend raised his eyebrows a little bit. “What kind of place was this?” he asked. I told him it was Chinese. He nodded and said, “Yeah, they always care more about texture than taste.” He didn’t want to tell me at first, but I pressed him and so he coughed up what I’d had for Thanksgiving: jellyfish!

Grand Opening

Last Saturday Jip and I made the trek to Prachinburi, a province about two hours east of Bangkok, to check out the restaurant that Chao and his wife have just opened. They did a fantastic job building the open-air, lunch-and-dinner place. It sits next door to a rice field, where diners feel like they’re picnicking.

This grand opening is a milestone for Chao and Lek, who were married more than three years ago but have had a commuter marriage for most of that time. Chao recently resigned his job at Thailand’s biggest newspaper in order to live with his wife, who takes care of her father and runs the family bookshop. It wouldn’t surprise me if together they ended up starting a new family next year, in addition to this new business.

But it’s also a milestone for the connection between Jip and her younger brother. Throughout the time we have lived in Bangkok, Chao has been a frequent visitor, sometimes just to say hello, sometimes to use the pool at our apartment. We’ve even seen a fair amount of him during the construction and outfitting of the restaurant, because he has had to buy supplies in the big city, and has often spent the night at our place.

Restauranteuring is consuming work. Now that the place has officially opened, I doubt he’ll take many days off. If we want to see him, we’ll likely need to take a drive to the country, as we did last weekend.

Vets World Cup

Bangkok’s soccer league for old men tried out the idea of everyone playing for their home country. After countless matches as the lone Yank among Brits, it was strange but fun to play on a team of (North) Americans.

Not that it was easy to fill the roster. Three of us from the States had to combine forces with three Canadians and a naturalized U.S. citizen who was born in Turkey, just to be able to reach the minimum number of players. Japan, by contrast, fielded three of the 18 teams. England and France had two apiece, and many other European countries were out in force.

But for those countries it’s not unusual for the teams to break down by nationality. During the regular vets’ league season most people end up sticking with their own kind. For whatever reason, us Americanos—maybe because we’re in short supply to begin with—have ended up shared around. Not that I mind playing for the British Club. I get to hear some different accents and to keep up with who’s on top of the English Premier League table.

Yesterday's team, unlike many of the British Club squads I’ve been part of, made a respectable showing in the final standings. A dynasty in the making?

Going Native

Four years and counting, yet I still don’t know how to sleep in Southeast Asia. Air conditioner? Fan? Open window? Each has its advantages.

Our place often gets nice breezes at night, so what has worked best recently is to set up a little tent made of gauzy fabric and place it on the bed. The idea is the same as mosquito nets that hang from bedposts. But because we don’t have bedposts or a low ceiling, I bought a free-standing pop-up device that assumes its shape when you pull on a cord at the top. During the day we stash it in a closet, where it looks like a tall folded umbrella.

Does that make me a native? Or a slow learner? Before you decide, you should know that I now finally am consistent about looking to the right before crossing the street in this drive-on-the-left country. It’s only taken me this long to figure out which lane is going to hit me first.

Loner Krathong

Last night was Loy Krathong, the annual chance to go down to the river with your beloved and launch a little banana leaf boat with a candle in it. Originally it was meant as a day to express gratitude for all the good things nature has done for you over the year. During the twenty-plus years that I’ve been aware of this holiday, it seems to have morphed into more of a Valentine’s Day than a Thanksgiving.

Jip has never been a big fan of Loy Krathong (“what part of polluting the river says ‘thank you?’” she asks, quite reasonably). For the past couple years I’ve been able to sweet-talk her into at least acknowledging the romantic part of the day. But after I finished making our krathongs this year, she declined at the last minute to participate. I went downstairs to the little fountain at the gate to our apartment, thinking that at least I wouldn’t waste the banana leaves.

I invited the security guard to join me. He now thinks I’m even loonier than he maybe already did, but I also think he was secretly pleased to have a chance to thank the water gods.

Jip's Fourth Cycle

Jip has now gone around four times on the Chinese zodiac calendar. For her 48th birthday a few days ago, she let me throw her a party, the first time since she turned 36.

So much has changed in the meantime. Back then, her dad was still alive to send her a lovely note, telling her how happy she made him. Jip was still working, and her colleagues—Cambodian, Chinese, Ethiopian, Jewish, Mennonite—each celebrated her in unique ways. Our wide Seattle care community had yet to band together as the invaluable support network and safety net that it eventually became, but those seeds were being planted, and many people from that large group turned up to wish Jip a happy day.

Yet in spite of the many changes over twelve years, Jip has hardly aged at all. She still has the skin of a twenty-four-year-old, and the laugh of a little kid. Her white hairs probably outnumber the black ones by now, but she cuts them short enough that people who meet her for the first time have a hard time guessing how old she is. She lives such a healthy lifestyle and eats such a healthy diet that she is among the fittest people I know, in spite of her disease.

On the actual day (which happens to be a national holiday here—very handy), we hosted a steady stream of friends and phone callers. Her mom phoned in the morning to say that she had been to the temple. (Jip didn’t want gifts, but it was OK that people made merit in her honor.) We stretched out the occasion a bit longer with a trip two days later to an interesting Buddhist retreat center that Jip had wanted to visit for some time.

I suspect Jip has yet to reach midlife. She’ll probably follow in her grandmother’s footsteps, as she does in many other ways, by orbiting through at least four more cycles.

Pigeon Redux

A few years back, a bird pooped on my shirt as I walked under its perch. Thais I met that morning became quite excited—jealous, even—about what they considered my good fortune. Long story short, I was encouraged to buy a lottery ticket. The ticket’s final two digits were “66,” which were chosen with the help of a Thai website to match the type of bird we presumed had hit me. (I hadn’t been sure, but we all guessed that it was probably a pigeon, the most common urban species.)

That ticket didn’t win. I thought to myself, “bad luck.” But the folks who had advised me thought, “wrong species.”

Fast forward to last week. Some workmates and I were at lunch, sitting at a covered outdoor cafeteria. Three pigeons were perched on a light fixture above our table. This time the victim (favored one?) was my friend Somboon. When I saw the poop on his shirt, I knew he couldn’t lose. After all, we had a positive species identification.

We saw a lottery ticket seller on the walk back to the office. Somboon decided to go out on a limb and bet on the final three digits (the more you match, the more you win). He went for “366,” on the thinking that there were three pigeons. Word spread quickly, and before the day was out, another ticket sporting the same number was in the hands of Tay, the housekeeper on our floor. I gather that she takes her lottery science quite seriously. The day of my mis(?)hap, she too had put down 80 baht on “66.”

Back then, of course, she and I were both denied. This time, it seemed a sure thing. Somboon is engaged to be married in a few weeks—how bad can his karma be? Plus he had experience going for him, and witnesses, and the fact that the poop landed on his shirt and not in his meal.

The winning numbers are drawn twice a month, on the 1st and the 16th, during the afternoon. Because the 16th was a Friday, I didn’t hear confirmation of the victory we were all sure was coming until around noon on Monday. How was I informed? By the housekeeper presenting me with a free lunch, out of gratitude for my role in her big payoff. How much did she and Somboon each win? 4000 baht ($120)!

Somboon’s jackpot won’t make too big a dent in the cost of his coming wedding. But for Tay the payout was nearly half a month’s salary. Not a bad return on investment in these tough economic times.

Lesson Learned

Lots of good running this month, as the annual Angkor Wat half marathon gets closer. A few nights ago was the annual midnight run. It’s kinda gimmicky, but when else are you going to have a good excuse to wander the streets at that hour on a Saturday night with three or four thousand other people? That afternoon, I mentioned that I was going to run it to a teenager I know. She recommended a certain energy drink as my secret weapon.

I ignored her advice until about 90 minutes before race time, when I was tempted to bail because of serious yawning. But then I thought of my soccer mates who would be waiting for me at the start line by pre-arrangement, so I sucked it up, stopped in at the Seven-Eleven around 11:30, pounded said drink, and…

…surprise!... proceeded to run one of my best times ever. The next day I was still flying high. Briefly I was fooled into thinking that I was invincible and could do whatever I wanted to my body without consequences.

But I am not invincible. Sunday afternoon, I donated blood at the Thai Red Cross in honor of Jip’s upcoming 48th birthday (Thais donate blood to make merit). As I walked out of the center, I wondered if I had been wise to choose that day to give. I was already sleep deprived from the race. Then I was going to have to get up several times in the middle of the night as part of my weekly turn to take care of Jip.

And so what did I do to offset any possible ill effects of not having enough blood in my system? Back to the energy drink.

This turned out to be a bad plan, as you could have foreseen, because even though I sailed through the evening with Jip showing no signs of fatigue (the stuff really works), there was a sort of hangover effect on Monday, which luckily was a day off for us government workers (Columbus), but unluckily fooled me yet again.

This time the foolishness was figuring that as long as I was sleepy, I could go for an afternoon massage. Thai massage is great if you have no toxins stored up in your tissues. Or if you have a normal amount of blood to flush those toxins. But I had two strikes against me, having pounded two energy drinks in two days. By Monday night I was hurtin’ for certain and by Wednesday things were bad enough that the wisest course of action seemed to be staying home all day and basically vegging, which in these parts is known as what goes around comes around.

Lesson learned: ignore teenagers’ advice at all costs.

Bowling Night

Two workmates organized a charity event that attracted nearly everyone from our floor to all ten lanes of a local alley on a Thursday night. We raised more than 24,000 baht (over $700) for a nearby orphanage. The evening was a reminder of why working at the same place is still fun and satisfying, just over four years since I started there.

My responsibilities have changed enough during that time, along with disease priorities in Thailand, that most days still feel new and challenging. Recently the emphasis has moved from providing domestic assistance to exporting some of Thailand’s public health successes to neighboring countries.

The work remains important, yet it isn’t intense enough that I’m consumed by it or forced to choose between spending time on it and spending time with Jip. Last month, at a planning retreat with most of my colleagues, I looked around and felt really lucky to get to work and play with so many good people. On bowling night, I re-realized that landing this job was a big score.

Provocative Passage to the Roof of the World

Most trips I take are enjoyable in the moment. Some stay with me for a few weeks. Now and then I look back through journals or photos of the best traveling I’ve done. But going to Tibet, as I did last week, changes the measuring stick. It was a journey as stimulating as any I’ve ever been part of. My traveling companions and I were continually moved by the Tibetans’ pain threshold and sense of humor in the face of Chinese colonization there and the gradual extinction of their culture.

A few of my reflections are posted on hipbelt. Probably I’ll continue to stew over this trip for years to come.

Reading to Jip

Back in Seattle, Jip would happily listen to friends reading aloud to her. She preferred real people to books on tape because she enjoyed stopping to discuss a point or going off on tangents. Sometimes it took two hours just to read one chapter. Everyone involved loved those days. The purpose was not to finish the book, it was to extend the back-and-forth as long as possible.

Then gradually Jip’s brain changed and her attention span shortened. She focused on the here and now, became less interested in the there and then. Fewer readers came to visit. They realized that the days of lengthy, teased-out conversations weren’t likely to return. Jip’s listening tastes turned to taped dharma talks—familiar Buddhist homilies she had already heard dozens of times—or short letters and e-mail messages that I would read to her occasionally.

That’s how things stood when we arrived in Bangkok. Many of her old friends here remembered Jip as an enthusiastic reader. When they learned that she had lost her vision, they offered to send over Thai books that the caregivers could read to her. For a long time, Jip resisted. She was so fixated on her routines that she didn’t want to introduce anything that might vary from day to day. She also betrayed some deep-seated snobbishness, saying that the caregivers didn’t have enough education to do justice to stories. If anyone read to her, she said, it had to be in English.

But a short time ago, an old friend and former professor of Jip’s happened to pass through town, and asked what Jip might like to listen to. To my surprise, Jip offered up the name of a book that I wouldn’t have guessed she had heard of, a Thai tale called The Happiness of Kati. This story appealed for several reasons, among them that the author uses a wheelchair. This writer also happens to be the sister of the current prime minister. Jip admires their father because he is an expert on Jip’s disease.

The book sat on our shelf for a while because Jip still refused to be read to by her caregivers. One morning, a couple of my Thai colleagues dropped by. They had come over to read to Jip a few months earlier, but for various reasons the reading never happened that day, so now they were trying again. I suggested The Happiness of Kati. Instantly the story captivated Jip. Her whole expression changed, as if she were a detective listening for clues to solve a case. She interrupted several times to ask questions and share her own experiences. It took nearly two hours to read the first chapter.

She asked Patama and Noi when they could come again. They said maybe they would be free again the following month. Jip’s mouth fell open in disappointment—she had been hoping maybe they could continue the story the following day. On a hunch, I suggested to that afternoon’s caregiver that she pretend to have just noticed the book for the first time, and to flip through it while saying things like, “hmmm, this part looks interesting.” I said that she might want to “accidentally” begin reading it “to herself,” beginning with Chapter 2.

Sure enough, Jip didn’t stop her. In the evening, the next caregiver picked up where the previous one had left off. Tag-team style, they finished the book in three days. The tale hooked Jip enough that it didn’t matter who her narrator was, she just wanted to get to the end. Conveniently, the book has a sequel. Now she lets anyone read to her. The local crew and Jip have finished several stories together. This part of the day is a great addition to the routine.

Aung San Suu Kyi Verdict

What a shame that this sham trial wasn’t simply abandoned before it began. For several weeks the world’s only imprisoned Nobel Peace Prize winner has had to endure even worse than normal conditions while waiting for the Burmese so-called justice system to rule on whether or not she was right in allowing an uninvited weirdo to stay the night after he swam across a lake to her house in order to warn her that her life was in danger (duh).

A few days ago she was sentenced to three years’ hard labor, a ruling that was immediately reduced to another 18 months of house arrest (on top of the nearly 15 years she has already spent detained for being "likely to undermine the community peace and stability," according to the junta).

Just when you think that a government can’t get any more wicked than it already is, Burma’s bosses outdo themselves once again.

My Kind of Town

I’m breezing through Chicago for the second time this summer. It’s still my kind of town. What’s not to like about a place where the baseball fans stick around Wrigley Field for three hours hoping the skies will clear so they can see the Cubs play the Pirates?

Our Sunday afternoon at the ballpark was fun even though we never got to even see a pitch thrown. Just sitting around that fine shrine brings back great memories. Its smells and sounds (such colorful banter, even during a rain delay!) can’t be found in Asia.

Two other outings we took this weekend couldn’t have happened in Bangkok. On Saturday we took in the city’s most popular public sculpture, nicknamed “The Bean,” which didn’t exist last time I visited. Here’s a cool website that gives a 360° sense of what this unusual gathering spot looks like and what else is nearby.

Just beyond the website camera’s lens is a unique fountain and wading pool, where we watched dozens of little people of all sizes and colors play together on the warm day. These two free attractions are great examples of Chicago’s make-no-little-plans spirit, which has always been most obvious along the lakeshore.

The second outing was a trip to Ravinia, the outdoor music festival north of the city. Saturday night’s offering was a concert version of Rigoletto. I’ve seen this opera in Bangkok, but not while digesting a picnic, lying on a blanket, looking up at the stars. It didn’t hurt that the singers and orchestra were world class.

Of course any place where my parents are is a pretty nice place, even if it doesn’t have the Cubs, the Bean, and the Chicago Symphony. I believe I’ll be back!

Snack Time

In the public spaces at our office sits a great assortment of snacks to share. People here seem to enjoy furnishing food to others, not least because a community plate leads to a community conversation. Compared to places I’ve worked in the States, the “menu” is healthier, tastier, and quicker to disappear.

Food donations go way beyond the re-gifting of a fruitcake (as in, “Don’t worry, honey. Why don’t I just take it to work? It’ll disappear eventually there”). My colleagues bring in stuff they really want to eat, everything from cut-up mangoes to sandwiches hoarded from conference coffee breaks. A crowd gathers instantly and laughter breaks out. It’s all part of Thailand’s jobs-should-be-fun-or-else-they’re-not-worth-doing philosophy.

Food quality gets noticed. Word spreads fast when a rare brand of Thai treat shows up, or a cheesecake from a five-star hotel. Particularly fancy dishes get labeled as “hi-so,” short for “high society.” This term gets used to describe everything from deluxe accessories like brand-name watches to pretentious displays for the sake of flaunting one’s privilege.

The last time I brought in something, I got teased about how my contribution looked kind of “lo-so.” It’s true that boiled peanuts aren’t exactly hotel fare. But they disappeared in a flash. Most Thais prefer boiled over roasted, and a few people told later that they appreciate a snack that fills them up without being too fattening. Even the one who teased me confessed that she was responsible for eating at least half the bag. “I said the peanuts looked lo-so,” she explained. “That doesn’t mean they tasted lo-so.”

H1N1 Comes to Thailand—Update

H1N1 flu numbers are climbing fast here. In terms of the rate of new infections, Thailand today seems to be roughly where the U.S. was a couple of months ago. The sudden surge, along with a death count that doubled in one week, is discouraging to many Thais. Some of them now have another reason to question the government. The government, in turn, has been overcautious about how much it reveals—a PR strategy that usually backfires.

When I returned from the U.S. recently, Jip’s caregivers asked me to buy them masks so they could protect themselves. They assumed I was infected and contagious. Fair enough—I’d just come from the country with the highest number of cases on the planet.

I didn’t mention to them that if anyone should be wearing a mask it should be me. There’s no conclusive evidence that masks prevent catching the flu, but it does seem to be true that they can prevent giving it to others.

Feeling fine, I went to the pharmacy and bought a handful of masks for everyone. As I paid, the pharmacist made a few tick marks on a piece of paper near the register. I asked what she was doing. She said that her shop—a little place on a back street—has been selling ten masks an hour.

Hand washing gel is now available outside the elevators at both home and at work. Rainy season (also the time of year here for the regular, “seasonal” flu) is far from over. It could be a long one.

Calm Before Collapse?

Headlines here this month aren’t as full of protests as they have been during the previous year, although the country is no less divided. You can draw the dividing lines lots of ways—between old guard and new money, between those who love and hate Thaksin, or between regions.

No matter how you slice it, a smooth democratic future seems unlikely. Winners of recent elections have acted as if they have the right to take all. The current coalition government was not elected. In order to form, it was forced to accept as ministers people who have since been charged in connection with last year’s siege of Bangkok’s two main airports.

How those charges play out may determine whether the coalition holds, as well as the outcome of the next elections, whenever they are called.

Are You Human?

It’s common in June and July to hear people mention that their brother or son is planning to ordain for a few months. Historically the monk census goes up during rainy season because not much happens agriculturally

Candidates undergo a kind of interview. Among the questions potential monks are asked is “Are you human?” You’d think the questioner could tell by looking. But according to an old Buddhist story, every now and then a snake will take try to pass himself off as a man. That would be bad. Hence the question.

In rituals like these of course everyone already knows what to expect. Nobody answers the wrong way.

Reflection

Time for the annual stock taking. We’ve just passed the four-year mark in Thailand. This chapter no longer seems new. We’re residents, not visitors. It’s hard to see how we could be in a better place. Jip’s cheerfulness is stunning. The caregivers keep showing up, rain or shine. I sleep very easy.

Just back from ten days in the States, I get to look at Thailand with fresh eyes this coming week. Transitions like these are good times to reflect on foreign-ness.

Surprises here are rarer and rarer. I don’t do double takes anymore when I see women attendants in the men’s room at the mall (and no more shifting uncomfortably as they clean around the urinals while I’m standing there). Barefoot bus drivers no longer faze me, nor the proudly overdressed Thai security guards. And alas, I’m sure I now take for granted much of the unearned privilege that goes along with being a white guy in this country.

Nowhere else would work better for Jip. When we were in Seattle, I wrestled with the pro’s and con’s of moving to Thailand. Four years on, I wonder what I was worried about. Looked at in hindsight, the decision is a no-brainer. If anything, we should have come earlier.

Classy Trip

My karma isn’t all bad. Despite what looked to me like a slow travel day, the airline I chose for a 4th of July trip to the U.S. had oversold the coach section. So without any warning I found myself at the front of the plane between Tokyo and Chicago.

At first I didn’t want to say a word to the air hostess, for fear that she’d kick me out. But by the end of the trip, she was writing me a personal postcard, looking forward to the next time I could fly with them. Details of this delightful flight are described on hipbelt, holybasil’s sister site.

Secrets of a Mangosteen

A special pleasure in May and June is the mangosteen. This fruit’s eggplant-dark rind contrasts shockingly with the white segments inside. Who would guess, cutting one open for the first time, that bleached little pillows would be hiding in there? The taste surprises too. To my tongue it’s a cross between a grape and a peach. Few flavors are nicer.

But choosing a good specimen is tricky—part timing, part luck. When a mangosteen is past its prime, the segments get browner and sourer. Trouble is, you can’t know for sure without slicing into it. The outside doesn’t change much with age.

Unopened mangosteens do give away one secret, though. The number of small brown petals on the bottom matches the number of pillows. Every time. Makes a great party trick.

Now is the Time

This would be a good moment for the world to denounce the imprisonment of Aung San Suu Kyi. She and Burma face the prospect of being locked up for several more years. The woman is not well. Her doctor has sometimes been prevented from visiting her. Her 64th birthday is this Friday.

Besides being the country’s only democratically elected leader, she’s the world’s only jailed Nobel Peace Laureate.

So the U.N. Security Council, which investigated in Rwanda, Yugoslavia, and Darfur when those places were acting all crazy, should go beyond statements of concern to genuine action. The Association of South East Nations (ASEAN), or at least a significant bloc within ASEAN, should arbitrate between their bad-boy member and the big Western countries whose sanctions haven’t fazed Burma’s generals. Arms sales from China to Burma should be stopped. (I know, I know, and then pigs will fly.)

I say now is the time because popular, attractive, well-spoken symbols of a country’s suffering don’t come along every day. It will be hard to match the momentum potential of this moment. You might consider a letter to Obama or to your members of Congress, urging them to press the UN to act—especially now, before the outcome of her “trial” is official.

A Taste of Karma

Should you ever be tempted to doubt the notion that what goes around comes around, consider this sorry tale.

Two days ago, on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, I finally succumbed to my first bite of durian this year. The big yellow pillows looked especially inviting on the vendor’s cart as I walked past. The season might end suddenly, I reasoned. Best to get it now while it’s fresh.

The next day, still a little bit drunk on the deliciousness, I said without thinking to a guy who asked if I needed anything at the lunchtime market, “Sure, a bit of durian would be nice.” Never mind that this helpful fellow was a colleague, that the market was on the Ministry campus, and that he would be bringing back this eat-it-today-or-be-forced-to-toss-it-tomorrow morsel TO THE OFFICE.

Granted, he too should have realized that such a thing is just not done. It’s understood throughout Thailand that when people eat durian, if they eat it at all, they eat it at home. The stink of this fruit simply isn’t compatible with a professional environment.

The only way around this prohibition, I now see, would be to have bought enough for the entire floor. An open invitation to an all-hands feast might make up for the reek. Of course I was not thinking that way then. For one thing, the stuff is not cheap. Treating the floor could easily have set me back 50 bucks. And as I say, I was not in complete control of my faculties at the time.

So my coworker showed up with the goods, I paid him back ($3), and we agreed to have a little snack together mid-afternoon. The first signs of trouble showed up long before that. People began to darken my doorway, hands on their hips, sporting a look that said, “Are you out of your mind?”

By the time we eventually indulged, despite closeting ourselves inside my little room, everyone within a 100-meter radius knew of my sin, without having to be told. The little smell molecules had made their way throughout the environment as easily as if they had been nerve gas.

And they don’t simply dissipate, as it turns out. Durian lingers. Like the smell of onions or charred wood, durian’s odor hangs in the air long after it is no longer physically present. From the time we finished our nibble (2:30ish) straight through until folks began packing up for the day, I had been scolded in no uncertain terms.

Now, in addition to it being durian season, the rains have finally arrived in this part of the world. Nearly every afternoon we can count on a pretty good drenching, usually lasting abut an hour. Where I sit, on the top floor of the building, this daily event makes a pleasant sound on the roof.

But on this day it hit almost exactly at quitting time, creating a dilemma for people who drive. They knew they would soon be sitting in traffic, their windshield wipers moving faster than their wheels. I slipped downstairs to see a friend I sometimes commute with, to find out what he was thinking of doing.

It turned out the friend had left early. I was away from my office fewer than five minutes. Yet those five minutes were when a drainpipe above my bookshelf overflowed, creating an impressive waterfall that flowed down from the air conditioning unit, through my various volumes, and onto the floor. I returned to find half a dozen people furiously bailing, flinging books, and speculating about whether the flood was likely to get deep enough to endanger the computer.

Nobody else’s office was touched. I stayed till 8 helping to clean up. Wringing things out, I thought, Swift justice! Noah at least got some warning.

Colorless Mob

Traffic has been backed up at an intersection near our place recently, thanks to a demonstration staged by farmers. I’m not clear about the precise complaint, but they’re determined to get results. They have camped on the sidewalk for a couple weeks straight.

Unlike protests of the past six months here, this struggle doesn’t make headlines, and the protestors don’t all dress alike. Yellow-shirted and red-shirted groups have made themselves scarce since Songkran. I’ve seen a few white t-shirts walking around with the words “Stop Hurting Thailand” printed in the colors of the flag.

Even though this motto may speak for the silent majority, by itself it won’t take care of the country’s troubles. The same words and design are posted on a big sign inside the Thai military barracks where I sometimes run, so already they appear to have been embraced by a faction that is associated with the status quo.

A Full Day, Part 3

The kids’ bedtimes were approaching, so we said goodbye on the street. My phone rang again. Two other friends wondered which showing of Star Trek 2009 I wanted to meet them at. The movie is showing at dozens of theaters in Bangkok.

But when we met at the theater, Nick said we should choose another screen because the 8:00 show at that place was only for the luxury seats, which cost more than five times as much. We ran into the same problem at the 8:30 down the street. Happily, that part of Bangkok is so packed with malls that we were able to find a 9:00 show for 100 baht ($2.85).

My expectations for the movie were low. I’ve never been a Trekkie (I’m told that Trekker is actually the more respectful term). But I have to say it was pretty great. I’m kind of a sucker for any plot with a time warp in it.

Jip waited up for me. She nearly always does. Even when I tell her I’ll be home late and that she should feel free to fall asleep, she often wills herself to stay awake. When she hears my voice, she reports the latest news from the domestic front. In this case there weren’t many new headlines. She simply wanted to ask me what was the name of that baby who came to visit.

A Full Day, Part 2

Patama and Noi had to go. I ate breakfast. Jip’s caregiver made her some lunch. A few minutes later, Jip’s accupressurist/masseuse arrived. The phone rang. It was an American couple I know. They and their two young children are thinking of moving to our neighborhood from across town. We had already spoken about their coming by for a swim and maybe a meal at one of the nearby eateries. They were cruising our street, not sure of our exact address.

Thomas, aged four, headed straight in to the bedroom. He asked, “Why does that guy in the bed have that thing on his belly? What’s that stuff inside it?” He had been fooled by Jip’s short haircut. The thing on her belly was Jip’s urine bag, which normally sits under her shirt like a belt, but at that time was exposed while the accupressurist worked on her lower back.

The parents followed behind slowly. Before long the conversation turned to the daughter, Sophia (aged “zero,” according to her brother). Sophia had been in great spirits all afternoon. In the pool she had kicked up a storm. Later, on a carpet, she showed off the muscles that should have her crawling before this month is over. (She was born last August.)

The baby continued to gurgle happily while Jip asked about her. Jip likes kids. As a health educator in the refugee camps, Jip midwifed countless Cambodian babies. She eagerly accepted the offer to hold Sophia, and instantly declared that the girl felt to her to be about two years old. We decided that Jip’s sense of kids’ age was based on the Cambodian refugee children’s growth rates, rather than that of American expat kids.

The five of us went out for a meal on the corner. It was simple fare, but the dad was nearly squealing with excitement because that kind of storefront place is rarer in his part of Bangkok than in ours. He was even more delighted when the (tiny) bill arrived.

A Full Day, Part 1

Yesterday began for me with a run in the neighborhood. I didn’t get out the door early enough. The heat slowed me down. I took a shortcut, circling back home 15 minutes sooner than I had expected to be done.

Two friends from work had called the night before, wondering if they could come over at 9 in the morning to read to Jip in English. Jip was pleased at the idea, even though she hadn’t met Patama and Noi before.

Before I left for my run, I sent my friends a text message, suggesting they delay by an hour. I didn’t think Jip would be ready. But when I got back I found she had hurried through breakfast because she was excited about the visitors. I wished I hadn’t sent the text.

Jip went ahead with her routine: toothbrushing, toileting, showering. The sweating from my run wouldn’t stop. I changed shirts three times. A friend from Chicago and I skyped, after not talking for over a year. We cut off the conversation when the doorbell rang.

Patama and Noi had been shopping. They brought bags of fruit. We chatted while Jip finished her shower. Sounds from the next room, a hard-edged banter with the caregiver, told me her mood had soured.

Jip lives pretty much in the present moment. So perhaps she was irritated by the caregiver’s efforts to move things along because of the guests. Or maybe the caregiver had gotten a phone call and had chosen to talk rather than explain she was working.

Whatever the reason, Jip was no longer interested in being read to. She wanted to dry off from her shower. I suggested she could wrap herself in a towel and say hello. She said, “no guests.” I knew from experience that those words really meant “there’s too much going on, I can’t process all of this at once.”

The visitors and I hung around in the kitchen, eating the fruit, until Jip was dressed. It was about 11:30. Jip asked my friends where they had graduated from. This question is common enough among Thais who meet each other for the first time. It helps establish where everybody fits in the social scheme of things. For Jip it’s also a way of determining who else she might know in common. Historically only a handful of schools in Thailand have offered nursing or medical degrees. Not surprisingly, they discovered three or four points of connection.

H1N1 Comes to Thailand

The prime minister announced today Thailand’s first two cases of what’s being called here “New-DNA Flu 2009.” Both people already had recovered and gone home from the hospital. Lab results had just confirmed their strain matched the new human/pig/bird virus that has kept us quite busy at work these past two weeks.

H1N1’s arrival in Southeast Asia was inevitable, but politicians had been crossing their fingers that the country could dodge it. Nobody wants to give tourists another reason to stay away. Meanwhile, as we enter the time when seasonal flu usually peaks in Thailand, the scientists at my office are on the lookout for signs that New-DNA Flu 2009 has mixed with its cousin and reassorted to create a new-new strain.

Visakha Bucha

Today Thailand celebrates Visakha Bucha, the day when, as the story goes, Buddha was born, reached enlightenment, and passed away. The common thread to these events being impermanence, they are marked with candles, flowers, and incense—things that wither quickly.

At one temple I walked past today, worshippers blessed the central chedi using an ingenious pulley system. From a distance, it appeared that a large bird was flying over and over again to the top of the pagoda. (You might spot the bird just above the telephone wires in this fuzzy picture taken with my phone’s camera.)

Ducking through a gate for a closer look, I saw that the bird was made of metal. On a rope attached to the pulley, the bird trailed a bucket of water, which tipped its contents upon reaching the summit. Kids eagerly re-filled the bucket each time the bird returned to earth, while their parents made merit with each “flight” by pushing small bills into a donation box.

I happen to be in Chiang Mai, taking advantage of the three-day weekend, the full moon, and the chance to catch up with some people I haven’t seen for too long. Nobody I know here wanted to join in the most devout observation of the day, a 10-kilometer climb up the side of the city’s famous mountain, starting at sunset and arriving at a classic monastery around 3 in the morning.

So I saved that stroll for another year, and instead met a friend just after dark for three circuits around Wat Suan Dok. We had lots of company there, of all ages. A sermon was being broadcast through loudspeakers, bells were jingling, and kids were respectfully tapping at gongs. Yet the overall mood seemed to be one of silent reflection.

My friend pointed out that people in Bangkok don’t take time to celebrate Visakha Bucha. Perhaps they get stuck in traffic.

Respect for Caregivers

It’s been exactly a year since I last took a turn on the exhausting daytime caregiving shift. I’m still in awe of these women’s energy. I’m talking not only about the three women who continue to show up day after day and cheerfully meet Jip’s needs, but also about Jip herself, who goes nonstop from dawn to way past dusk.

Yesterday was Thailand’s (and most of the world’s) Labor Day. It’s not a national holiday, but everyone in this class-conscious society understands who should get the day off and who shouldn’t. At our household the understanding is that I’ll take care of Jip on May 1st unless somebody really wants the overtime. Last year that meant a 24-hour shift; this year I was relieved at 8pm.

And I needed relief. Jip kept me hopping with explanations of new techniques that the caregivers have perfected. I thought I had kept up with these breakthroughs simply by being around during the day on weekends, but of course it’s one thing to watch and another thing to do. We fell behind schedule and stayed there as Jip busily brushed, flossed, lathered, and dried her way through the morning and deep into the afternoon.

We skipped the resting time that normally follows lunch, mostly because lunch didn’t happen until nearly 4pm. When the night caregiver showed up to find that we still hadn’t completed Jip’s exercises, she just smiled and got ready to take over. Jip praised my efforts and said she was renewing my contract. I was just glad I had the weekend to recover.

Strunk and White Anniversary

The Elements of Style has reached its 50th birthday. Last week a friend sent an e-mail followed by one of those quotes that people sometimes use as signatures after their messages. Hers said,

“If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they're happy." -- Dorothy Parker

I smiled at the quote, having come of age with Strunk and White, and having given away dozens of copies to young writers when I was teaching school.

But now I find that to my dismay that not everybody puts the little book on quite such a high pedestal as I have been used to doing. Or perhaps that the world has moved on.

The guest bloggers in a New York Times piece marking the anniversary say that The Elements of Style takes its own rules too seriously, and foists on readers the idea that there is such a thing as the one best style.

I continue to defend the book, especially for happy young readers, who often don’t know enough writing rules to be able to break them on purpose. For such writers Strunk and White serve as a sort of home base. Comfort food.

What Dorothy Parker probably knew and these bloggers have apparently forgotten is that we all start off wanting to be told what to do. After we finish going through puberty, or worshipping our coach/scoutmaster/pastor, or skimming the Lonely Planet Guide to whatever country we’re planning to visit, then we slowly branch out on our own. If our independence leads to mixed results, we can always return to our mentors.

State of Emergency Lifted

Today the Thai government announced an end to the 12-day ban on large gatherings, and to the detention of people suspected of inciting last week’s protests. The opposition had compared the prime minister’s tactics to those of Thailand’s nastier neighbors. The country’s former standing as a rising star in Asia has been tarnished more than ever.

In the past week several people have e-mailed me to ask what’s really going on with all the red and yellow shirts. Or as Jip says, why can’t people just start wearing orange and move on? I came across an analysis of the situation, written several weeks ago by a Thai academic. The writer oversimplifies the many-layered problems here, and below I’ve condensed his words further because some of what he wrote is already dated. But at least he offers a foundation for understanding the current stalemate:

We are faced with at least two major conflicts:

Conflict of goals: One side (Red shirt) wants a strong government that can deliver on policy promises; the other side (Yellow shirt) wants a weak government, because they think government is corrupt.

Conflict of means: One side (Red) believes that political conflict should be decided by election. The other side (Yellow) believes that the elections themselves are corrupted by money and by local influence.

… The Red is made up of rural-lower class, peasants and others who have benefited from the populist policies of the governments. The Yellow is urban-middle class who dislikes government corruption and doesn’t need the populist policies, but wants fairer deals in business and economics.

… The most recent election resulted in roughly 14-16 million for the Thaksin/Red side, 10-12 million for the Democrat Party/Yellow side. Red is popular in the North (Thaksin's area) and Northeast (poor and in need of development), while Yellow is popular in Bangkok and the South (high political awareness and the traditional Democrat's stronghold).

His sobering conclusion:

What these conditions imply is that violence could spread and civil war is not out of the question. Normally what evolves is either conflict between two groups of people and then the state machine intervenes, or conflict between two sides of the military and the people intervene. This time, however, people are divided and the state apparatus is also divided, therefore the prognosis is potentially quite dangerous.

Australian Inspection Tour

My trip down under succeeded as a scouting mission. The only downside was watching Thailand fall apart all week. Our good friend Margot happily helped me think through whether it would make sense for Jip to make the journey to Perth some day.

Jip’s favorite foods are available there. Handicap access isn’t an issue. It should be easy to find a time when the weather will cooperate. I even know now where we could hire local caregivers who speak Thai.

So that left the question of what would we do in Australia that Jip would enjoy, and that would be any different from the full and unvarying Bangkok routine that Jip would probably insist on following? Well, during this past week Margot and I beach walked, bird watched, crab netted, wine tasted, and souvenir shopped.

At a small island not far from Perth, people are visitors, birds are permanent residents, and the hourly boat can easily handle wheelchairs. Margot and I walked above the island’s beaches along a wooden boardwalk that passes right next to nests made by gulls, terns, pelicans, and even penguins. Jip would love that place.

In an estuary near Margot’s place we waded knee-deep and netted lots of crabs. Jip could sit on the dock and listen to us squeal each time we pulled one out of the water.

If Jip went to Australia we’d most likely skip the wine tasting and the souvenir shopping. We might not have time for those things anyway. Her routine would take up most of the morning. Margot, who is 80 but has more energy than most people half her age, goes to bed right after dinner (“I like my sleep”).

Looks like all Jip and I need to do is book tickets.

Quieter?

Back in Bangkok after a week in Australia, I find that the government has extended the state of emergency declared last weekend. Early Friday morning, a machine gun ambush left in intensive care the guy who founded the yellow shirt movement (the group that shut down two governments and two airports in the last few years). This guy and his followers played no role in the most recent protests.

I had thought things might be quieter than this. My neighbors had e-mailed me, saying that the city seemed deserted. Indeed, last week’s roadblocks are gone, as are the soldiers brought in to break them up.

Clearly the standoff between Thailand’s competing factions is far from over. Lots of rural and urban poor, led from abroad by Thaksin, still resent the way that the middle class, military, and monarchists and managed to take over last December without a vote. A year before that, candidates favored by today’s red shirts had handily won an election.

Among the demands of the red shirts, who suspended their street protests Tuesday, is the prosecution of the ambushed yellow shirt leader for his role in the airport closures.

Jip’s caregivers laughingly reported that they had heard the sounds of the demonstrations from our balcony, and that when their shifts were over they had had no choice but to return home by taxi—buses weren’t running for a few days. The guard downstairs was maybe a bit more candid when I asked him how he’d been lately. “Songkran was no fun this year,” he said.

Bangkok Viewed from Down Under

Distressing images from Thailand continue to lead the evening news in Australia. The stories here focus on the midair u-turn made by Australia’s prime minister when he learned en route that the summit meeting he planned to attend had been canceled.

What I see, looking at the TV footage, is that the latest clashes between protesters and army happened just a few minutes from our place. Even though Jip and her caregivers assure me that they’re not affected, it’s difficult to watch these events from afar.

Perth is lovely, and our good friend has been a great host for the past few days. Yet in many ways I'd rather be back in Thailand at the moment.

Big Face Loss

The Thai government suffered a major embarrassment this weekend when protesters shut down a summit meeting that was to have gathered leaders from around the region. This meeting had already been canceled once before out of the fear that it would be interrupted.

Three nights ago, the same group of demonstrators, most commonly called the red shirts, blocked key intersections around town, snarling traffic for hours. I got several phone calls at work from people who urged me to avoid my usual route home. They said the mob wasn’t violent, just inconvenient. After staying at the office a little later than usual, I took an alternate way and found the streets nearly empty. Word had gotten around.

The stated goal of the protesters is the “return of democracy to the people.” That phrase seems to really mean the return of former prime minister Thaksin Shinawatra, who has been living in exile since being ousted in a coup over two and a half years ago. He visited Thailand briefly last year, but took off again when it seemed the courts were about to find him guilty on corruption charges. For the past few days he has been rallying his supporters via videophone.

On Friday afternoon I headed from work to the airport for a previously scheduled vacation in Perth, Australia. Our office was among the few that didn’t have the day off. Thursday evening, thinking it could encourage people to celebrate rather than protest, the government had declared that Thai New Year would start one day earlier than planned.

Many roads remain blocked, but highways to the airport were clear. I confess that while waiting in a slow check-in line, I glanced around now and then to be sure there were no red shirts preparing to shut down outgoing flights. (The yellow shirts, supporters of the current government, did just that about four months ago.)

But it appears the red shirts had their sights set on the summit meeting rather than the airport. Watching the news here in Australia, I feel discouraged that Thailand remains so divided and directionless regarding its political future. Both groups of protesters during the past six months have been good at talking about what they don’t want, but it’s unclear to me what they do want, other than simply to hold power.

Reason Number 788 Why We’ve Got a Pretty Sweet Deal Going Here

I’ve been sent to the provinces for work reasons twice in the past two weeks. My job description rarely includes responsibilities outside Bangkok: in three years, I can count the number of trips on one hand.

Each time, I’ve had a spare hour or two between meetings, or while waiting for transportation back to the big city. My hosts could have found me a quiet corner where I could do some reading or plug in a laptop computer. But they never have.

Instead, they’ve always steered me to nearby massage shops. Further proof that this country has its priorities in the right order.

Mango and Sticky Rice Season

Our reward for putting up with the hottest weather of the year is the best fruit of the year. Mangoes, rambutans, mangosteens, and longans, are just a few of the delicious possibilities that start showing up in the markets around now. I noticed some good-looking mangoes for sale on the streets about ten days ago.

Jip decided to stick to some adage she learned in childhood about mangoes not being ready until April 1st. But I couldn’t hold off that long. Probably they’ll only be around for about ten weeks. Assuming I take a day off now and then, that means I’ll only eat about fifty servings of sticky rice and mangoes before they’re gone. No time to lose!

Giving Blood

Yesterday I gave blood for the first time in Thailand. I used to be a regular in Seattle. For whatever reason I hadn’t gotten into the habit here. Then last week at work we got an e-mail asking for donations of blood type O, which I share with most of the people in the States, but which I’m told is relatively uncommon in Asia.

The smooth process at the donation center, which made Seattle’s system look amateurish by comparison, impressed me. And the place was packed. Afterwards, someone explained that it’s a popular activity among Buddhists, who see giving blood as a way of making merit. Perhaps that explains why, in addition to offering donors the usual cookies and juice, the center handed all of us a Jatukham medal when we were finished.

HHH

Long before returning to live in Thailand, I’d been told to check out the local chapter of the Hash House Harriers. I thought of it a non-competitive group of sports-minded people who like mixing entertainment and exercise. Their self-description is a “drinking club with a running problem.”

Until three days ago, I’d never joined them on their Saturday afternoon outings, mostly because soccer has taken up enough of my weekend free time. But over the years here, running has become increasingly important to me, so I e-mailed the contact listed on the website last week. He was planning to drive out to the starting point for that week’s run. We arranged to meet up.

“You look too fit to be a hasher,” he said when I got in the car. I admit I was surprised to see a number of beer bellies when we joined the others. My presence also seemed to bring down the average age considerably. But thanks to a clever system for making sure everyone starts and finishes around the same time (a “hare” goes out ahead and marks a trail, complete with several false lefts and rights, causing the front runners to cover much more mileage than the folks at the back), fitness and age don’t really matter much.

What does really matter to this group isn’t entirely clear to me yet. At first glance, the brand of humor and the post-run beverage of choice would be right at home in most college fraternities. But as my website contact pointed out while we drove, everyone takes something different from the group. For me the fun came in spending an hour or so following back alleys and cutting through forests that otherwise I would never have seen. The hasher’s Thailand is not the tourist’s Thailand. My first hash won’t be my last.

Party Animal

I said I’d be home late because I was going to one of the very occasional gatherings of people in Thailand who also graduated from my college. Jip said, “What time are we leaving?”

Not wanting to put her off (it’s so rare that she’s interested in an outing)—but double-checking so that we didn’t end up leaving as soon as we arrived at the party—I reminded her that she wouldn’t know anyone. “No problem,” she said, “You can tell me about them before we get there.”

When the host greeted her by name, Jip was instantly at home, sticking out her hand and asking after his wife. She remembered her name from the short briefing I’d given her in the taxi. Jip was equally smiley with a handful of other people who approached us. One of them, a visiting professor from the college whose presence in town was the official excuse for the get-together, turned out to know a former neighbor of ours in Seattle. Pretty soon Jip was off to the races, trading stories about the neighbor and sounding as if she had known this professor for years.

I suspect that what attracts Jip to an event like this, or to the reunion last year of her college classmates, has more to do with the way she sees herself than with the people she is likely to encounter there. She may feel that she belongs to an educated layer of society that is different from the one her caregivers come from.

That sort of class consciousness is very common in Thailand, although it never seemed obvious in Jip when we lived here before. Nowadays, it’s not unusual to hear small prejudices and politically incorrect comments slip out of her. Like many people with a chronic disease, she has less and less use for the filter that keeps most of us from telling others what we’re really thinking.

After spending so much time with the same three women every week, and grumbling about the kinds of things they find interesting to talk to each other about, maybe Jip is simply starved for more intellectual conversation. Which would also explain why lately she’s been anxious have people come to read to her… in English only.

Shoulder Pain: Update

Yesterday marked the third Saturday in a row when Chutima has visited our apartment and worked on Jip's shoulder. During the nearly three years we’ve known this woman, she has given Jip massage a few times. But we never thought of what she did as accupresure. Jip has now decided that she qualifies.

Whatever you call it, the complaints about pain are way down. Jip’s pitching arm, recently too stiff to throw, is once again tossing strikes when she does her daily ball throwing exercises at the standing frame. After our two failed attempts to get her some relief, I was afraid we were going to have to declare “strike three” on our search for a solution to her shoulder woes.

Musical Barometer

During this season it’s too hot to go very far on foot. People in Thailand are much more likely to take a taxi or a tuk-tuk than to walk. But when I am caught out on the hot streets in March, April, and May, I take comfort in the hum of the cicadas. The rise and fall of their song reminds me that some day the rains will return.

Jip swears that their volume corresponds with the barometric pressure. For several years, the tightness of her legs has been a reliable way to predict the weather. So when the cicada noise gets loud enough to drown out normal conversation, and Jip’s legs began to feel jumpy, we know it won’t be long before the rumble of thunder comes our way.

“Glass Shadow” and “Stairs Monkey”

Studying a new language is especially fun when it leads to seeing an old idea in a fresh way. Two examples:

Just as in English, the word for “glass” in Thai can mean both something to put in a window and something to see your reflection in.

But what if you want to distinguish a pane from a mirror? In English you might insert the adjective, “looking.” In Thai you tack on the word, “shadow.” If you say that you need a “glass shadow” in order to shave your whiskers, everyone will know which kind of glass you mean.

Likewise, distinguishing “stairs” from “ladder” (the same word) in Thai is easy. To be certain everybody knows you’re talking about the latter, add “monkey.”

How Does Your Garden Grow?

In our pretty-good garden on the balcony is an accidental papaya tree. Probably it started as a seed that blew in on the wind. Everything seems to sprout here, no matter how much care (or neglect) you put into the project.

The Thai way is to grow plants in pots rather than beds. Even the huge permanent displays in front of public buildings really consist of hundreds of separate plants, each in its own pot. I read somewhere that people do this so they can move plants easily to higher ground when floods come.

Despite the wet and the heat, killing plants here seems harder than keeping them alive. Whenever we’ve had plants that look close to death, I’ve revived them by giving them a severe haircut and popping them into a new pot. In no time they’re thriving again.

The next step in my Thai gardening education will be figuring out which plants are pleasing to which spirits. I gather that certain species are thought to bring good luck, or to combine well with others to protect us from harm. If I ever re-arrange the pots on the balcony, I notice that the caregivers put them all back again the next day. Once or twice a new flower I’ve brought home has simply disappeared without a word. Time will tell if the papaya gets tossed out before it bears fruit.

Khao Sam Roi Yod National Park

A couple weeks ago, as Jip and I were coming back from a nice visit to Jip’s mom and grandma, I re-noticed some silhouetted mountains jutting up between the main road and the sea. Jip told me that the range and the national park surrounding it are known as “Three Hundred Peaks.” When I mentioned the place in Bangkok, I found that it’s well known among birders.

So I went back there on a scouting mission this past weekend, looking for spots where Jip and I could check off a few species. (Jip can identify most local birds by ear.) I arrived at the park entrance by bicycle and explained my quest to the rangers. They were excited to help. After asking about her wheelchair and her vision, they recommended a marsh with a boardwalk built out into it. They said it’s not far off the highway and attracts a mix of shore and inland birds.

I look forward to detouring there some day when we’re back in the neighborhood. This weekend, the boardwalk was too far to bike to. Instead, the rangers steered me to a beach they said I might enjoy for the trail that climbs to a well-known cave. From photos they showed me, I wasn’t too impressed, but I didn’t have any better ideas.

A map at the trailhead starred the standard nature-trail attractions: 1) big tree, 2) interesting orchid species, 3) spectacled langur… Wait. How could the mapmakers be confident enough of where this monkey-like creature would be sitting that they could mark its location with a star? Sure enough, when I got to number 3 on the trail, I looked up to see several pairs of little sunglasses staring down at me. No sign of a chain or rope keeping the critters there. No trash cans or similar buffet on offer. Must simply be a favorite hangout.

Phraya Nakhon Cave surprised me too. The pictures showed what seemed to be a small temple framed by a shallow depression in a cliff face. It’s common in Thailand to turn caves into Buddhist shrines.

Instead I found a huge goldfish-bowl-shaped sinkhole, more like a stadium than a cave. Because it’s open at the top, letting in a few hours of light every day, plants thrive there. Plus you’ve got your stalactites and stalagmites and echoes and… of course… a tasteful pavilion built in honor of the visit paid there over a hundred years ago by King Chulalongkorn. Naturally.

Catch Your Breath

I had just arrived home after work when a neighbor called. She had planned to visit us that evening, but wanted to ask, “Do you need a few minutes to catch your breath first?”

I didn’t. Her question made me realize that in this country I almost never do. We live in an unhurried place.

Jip's Bookshelf

Jip and I got back yesterday from visiting her village. While we were there her mom asked me to go through some of Jip’s old books. Anything we didn’t want to keep she planned to give away to the local high school.

What a wonderful reminder of who Jip used to be! I found lots of stuff about Buddhism on those shelves, but also Growing Up Catholic; The Tao of Pooh; Rumi, Poet and Mystic; Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind; The Power of Myth; A Christmas Carol; and even Waterbuffalo Theology.

Then came the anthropologist section—Cry the Beloved Country, Roots, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Gandhi: An Autobiography, Cathedrals and Abbeys of France, and Peoples of the Golden Triangle. I recognized the rebel nurse in titles like Blood and Guts and Our Bodies Our Selves, which sat next to The Manual of Gynecologic and Obstetric Emergencies. And of course the conservationist shelf—Rachel Carson, lots of writings by and about American Indians, and The Complete Birder.

My throat caught when I came across A Sand County Almanac. That book was very important to me in my 20s. Everything looked different to me after reading it. I remember preparing to lie down in front of bulldozers to prevent any further destruction of the American wilderness.

I had wondered what happened to my copy. Probably I brought it with me when I first came to Thailand, then passed it along to Jip, thinking it would speak to her too. Re-reading it now, I confess to feeling a little discouraged, wondering if our species is going to make it. But I do smile thinking of how a book inspired by a Wisconsin farm came to be part of a fascinating Thai-English library in a southern Thai village.

Designated Elder

Chinese New Year is a big deal in this town because many residents have ethnic Chinese backgrounds. Family obligations lead people to leave work early or skip it altogether. At our office the pace slows noticeably.

One colleague doesn’t have family here but misses the traditions he grew up with. Two years ago he began distributing the red envelopes filled with small amounts of paper money that are known locally as “ang pao.” Traditionally these envelopes are given only to children, but I haven’t noticed anyone turning down the offering when this guy goes door to door with his New Year gifts.

This year our sugar daddy stayed home on the first day of the multi-day festival because he wasn’t feeling well. A secretary who is known for her wisecracks wondered aloud if somebody else was planning to step up. She stopped me on my way to the copy machine. “Hey, John. Aren’t you forgetting something?” I checked my fly but found nothing amiss.

“No, not that,” she said. She put out her hand. “Don’t you know today is the day old guys are supposed to hand out ang pao to the kids?”

Obama-Mania

Everybody’s talking about the speech. Thais are just as excited by Obama as the Americans are. The guy truly is president of the World.

People here were impressed that his inaugural addressed mentioned Khe Sanh, the frequently contested battleground during the Vietnam War. That reference, and his specific inclusion of many religions and cultures, strikes a chord here among those who believe the most important outcome of the election will be a we’re-all-in-this-together attitude from the U.S.

Those same people appreciated when he said “our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please.” It took me back to a meeting of the Democrats Abroad that I attended nearly a year ago. This was before Hillary Clinton had dropped out. In the back room of a Bangkok Starbuck’s, the discussion leader asked the assembled Americans about which issues were most important to them in the campaign.

We went down the list: “Crime?” No hands went up. “Social Security?” A few takers. “Health care?” A few more. “America’s standing in the world?” Every hand in the room.

My Day ON

Three-day weekends are glorious, especially when your employer celebrates a day that nobody else in the country takes. But on MLK Day, I always hear the voice of my conscience, reminding me that “it’s not a day off… it’s a day on.”

That was the voice whispering to me as I began boulder hopping up the Nang Rong Falls in search of the perfect swimming hole. My trip out there the previous evening, via van, bus, and motorcycle, had only taken a couple hours. Traffic had been going the other way, most people heading back to town in time for work on Monday.

So my mood was pretty upbeat. Traveling light. Wearing shoes that stick, even when the rock is slippery. Looking forward to raw papaya salad for lunch.

Except for the conscience part. I couldn’t really claim to be performing any individual acts of kindness through service to others, or strengthening any communities. My main goal for the day was to climb high enough up the stream that I wouldn’t offend anyone when I stripped and jumped in.

That climb ended up taking a while, partly because it was such nice weather that I just kept on going, and partly because I kept spotting hints that people might be around. Hints like plastic drinking straws, Styrofoam containers, and empty beer bottles. Voila! Instant service project! On my way downstream I filled six bags with trash.

One lesson learned: in Thailand, empty beer bottles sometimes become a convention center for red ants. They bite when bothered. With experience, I became a bit more selective about what I picked up.