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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 09, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 02, 2009
“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.”
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.”
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