Coming home late from the temple trip described recently in this space, I ended up with a leg injury that will leave me hobbled for a few weeks. (A motorcycle was involved. I’ll spare you the details. If you come visit, we can go out to the sidewalk in front of our place for a re-enactment of the whole uninteresting tale.)
What is interesting to me is the reaction of Thai friends and colleagues when they see me limping around. Almost to a person, they say the same thing after they hear what happened: “faad khraw.” This phrase, which translates literally as “to beat fate,” goes beyond the meaning of “I’m glad it wasn’t worse,” to suggest that paying a small price today will prevent future, bigger misfortunes. It’s a fairly common saying in Thailand, and seems to be especially appropriate around the time of a milestone, such as a new year. In this case people were telling me that because of this setback, 2011 will likely be lucky for me. Hope they’re right.
Talking with one Thai well-wisher about this event and his use of “faad khraw” in reply, I began to get a little goofy, wondering aloud about fate and karma and the possibility of some weird connection to the leg injury sustained by the guy I met on the road near the border two decades ago. My friend cut me off with another classic Thai reply: “yaa khid maak!”—“You’re thinking too much!”
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Road Taken
Back in the refugee camp days, it wasn’t safe to go tromping off on your own to the actual Thai-Cambodian border. The closer you got to the dividing line between the two countries, the higher the chances that you’d meet somebody with a weapon. Lots of land mines got laid there too.
I still recall a lazy Sunday afternoon, sitting around playing music with a few other camp workers in the little border town where many of us lived. A frantic Khmer man drove up and asked for our help in getting his friend admitted to a nearby hospital. Not really thinking what we were getting ourselves into, two of us foreigners hopped in his truck and drove toward Cambodia for a few kilometers along a road we had never traveled before. We stopped in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, only to see a couple of men emerge from the forest carrying a make-do stretcher.
When they came closer we realized that the guy they were carrying had stepped on a mine. They hung the stretcher, hammock-style, from the inside corners of the shell on the back of the pickup. I sat back there with the guy to keep him steady while we drove to the hospital. He was really suffering and the two of us didn’t have much common language. All I could think to do was to hold his hand and sing to him. Luckily we were able to get him cared for. It wasn’t until the driver dropped us back in town that my friend and I realized we had taken a big risk in going along on that ride.
Two days ago, twenty-plus years after that incident, I got a chance to travel again on that road. Cambodia is no longer off limits; that part of the border is safe. (Tragically, the mines don’t know the war is over, and they continue to claim victims in areas that haven’t been cleared). I journeyed there for a look at a 1,000-year-old Khmer temple I’d read about called Sdok Kok Thom.
The Thai Fine Arts Council’s restoration looks great, as you can see in these before and after pictures. I had the place to myself, except for a school group whose impressive leader taught with questions rather than by lecture: “how are you each going to tell the story of this temple when you get home today?”
Indeed, Sdok Kok Thom’s story is unique. A pillar once stood at the corner of the grounds, inscribed with details about the why’s and the who’s of the temple’s construction. Scholars who have studied the inscription (now in Bangkok for safekeeping) say that it explains more about the context of those times than any similar Angkor-era “cornerstone.”
Perhaps in the future more tourists will also discover the magic of this site. For now, the road remains just as empty as it was the first time I took it. At that time, of course, I hadn’t known where I was going, nor that a temple was hiding in the forest. I hadn’t realized then that just three years earlier, some of my refugee students had stayed in a camp just a stone’s throw from the temple—until that camp was destroyed by shelling from the Cambodian side of the border. I never considered that the area was mined.
A sign at the edge of the site today commemorates the collaborative mine removal effort, which finished in 2004. A total of 76 explosive devices were found buried around the temple.
I still recall a lazy Sunday afternoon, sitting around playing music with a few other camp workers in the little border town where many of us lived. A frantic Khmer man drove up and asked for our help in getting his friend admitted to a nearby hospital. Not really thinking what we were getting ourselves into, two of us foreigners hopped in his truck and drove toward Cambodia for a few kilometers along a road we had never traveled before. We stopped in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, only to see a couple of men emerge from the forest carrying a make-do stretcher.
When they came closer we realized that the guy they were carrying had stepped on a mine. They hung the stretcher, hammock-style, from the inside corners of the shell on the back of the pickup. I sat back there with the guy to keep him steady while we drove to the hospital. He was really suffering and the two of us didn’t have much common language. All I could think to do was to hold his hand and sing to him. Luckily we were able to get him cared for. It wasn’t until the driver dropped us back in town that my friend and I realized we had taken a big risk in going along on that ride.
Two days ago, twenty-plus years after that incident, I got a chance to travel again on that road. Cambodia is no longer off limits; that part of the border is safe. (Tragically, the mines don’t know the war is over, and they continue to claim victims in areas that haven’t been cleared). I journeyed there for a look at a 1,000-year-old Khmer temple I’d read about called Sdok Kok Thom.The Thai Fine Arts Council’s restoration looks great, as you can see in these before and after pictures. I had the place to myself, except for a school group whose impressive leader taught with questions rather than by lecture: “how are you each going to tell the story of this temple when you get home today?”
Indeed, Sdok Kok Thom’s story is unique. A pillar once stood at the corner of the grounds, inscribed with details about the why’s and the who’s of the temple’s construction. Scholars who have studied the inscription (now in Bangkok for safekeeping) say that it explains more about the context of those times than any similar Angkor-era “cornerstone.”
Perhaps in the future more tourists will also discover the magic of this site. For now, the road remains just as empty as it was the first time I took it. At that time, of course, I hadn’t known where I was going, nor that a temple was hiding in the forest. I hadn’t realized then that just three years earlier, some of my refugee students had stayed in a camp just a stone’s throw from the temple—until that camp was destroyed by shelling from the Cambodian side of the border. I never considered that the area was mined.
A sign at the edge of the site today commemorates the collaborative mine removal effort, which finished in 2004. A total of 76 explosive devices were found buried around the temple.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Who Says Never the Twain Shall East Meet West?
Muffin flavor of the month at a Bangkok bakery: Banana cheddar.
You make the call…
- Sign that the apocalypse is upon us?
- Proof that Thailand now sets trends for global cuisine?
- Tragic consequence of somebody in the kitchen misreading the Thai-English dictionary?
- Indication that I need to get out more?
You make the call…
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Ploughing Through
I know about racism and sexism—but what’s the word for when people ridicule or romanticize rural life? Rusticism? Idealization? Whatever you call it, I sometimes do it. Lots of city folks do.
Here’s a cure: a Thai documentary called "Agrarian Utopia," directed by Uruphong Raksasad. It’s about the hardships of growing rice here.
Rakasad made arrangements to film two families working a small plot of land for a year. There was no script, only suggestions to the farmers about what they might talk about on camera. The
“actors” struggle with all kinds of weather, a stubborn buffalo, and spiraling debts. At various points they have to forage for food, taking honey from beehives and eating ants.
Whether or not this striking movie really captures what it’s like to plug away at this increasingly unsustainable way of life, I can’t really say. But I doubt I’ll look at gorgeous green rice fields in quite the same way from now on. Here’s the trailer. Check it out at a film festival near you.
Here’s a cure: a Thai documentary called "Agrarian Utopia," directed by Uruphong Raksasad. It’s about the hardships of growing rice here.
Rakasad made arrangements to film two families working a small plot of land for a year. There was no script, only suggestions to the farmers about what they might talk about on camera. The
“actors” struggle with all kinds of weather, a stubborn buffalo, and spiraling debts. At various points they have to forage for food, taking honey from beehives and eating ants.Whether or not this striking movie really captures what it’s like to plug away at this increasingly unsustainable way of life, I can’t really say. But I doubt I’ll look at gorgeous green rice fields in quite the same way from now on. Here’s the trailer. Check it out at a film festival near you.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Franklin's Angkor
To the list of time-honored traditions that go with this time of year, right alongside floating candles, yams with rosemary, and pictures with Santa, I’m now officially adding a 21-kilometer roadrace amidst Cambodian temples. For the fourth consecutive first Sunday in December, a few friends and I lined up at the start line in front of Angkor Wat to do a lovely early morning circuit of my favorite monuments on the planet.
The annual trot has become a comforting ritual. For some reason an old Grateful Dead lyric comes to mind:
In another time’s forgotten space
Your eyes looked from your mother's face
Wallflower seed on the sand and stone
May the four winds blow you safely home
Roll away the dew
Whatever that means. I’ve sung that tune countless times to myself, never really caring what it means, but somehow today it seems a fine description of the route taken by this magnificent race course.
We start out protected by a canopy of big trees lining the road that winds through the gigantic archeological park. Leaves drop around us as we settle in to our pace. The first five kilometers include a short out-and-back leg that makes the entire loop come out to be the right distance, which means we get a quick look at the leaders as they sprint by us on their way to finishing in under 90 minutes.
Not long after we leave behind the 200-meter-wide moat that surrounds Angkor Wat, we’re encountering kids by the side of the course. Most are hugging their moms’ legs out of shyness, or staring quizzically, as if to say, “It can ring like fire if you lose your way.” Soon a few have gotten brave enough to wave, and by the third or fourth water station, lots of the volunteers picking up the water bottles that runners cast aside are kids.
Every year I particularly look forward to a certain corner, just about at the halfway point in the race. The running route goes left, but if you were to turn right and go a few hundred meters a lovely reservoir known as Srah Srang (“Royal Bath”) would emerge from the forest. Perhaps this place lies just outside the formal boundaries of the park? or maybe the water source remains important to the locals, just as it was when they dug it out 800 years ago? Whatever the reason, the intersection marks a village, and so is busier with spectators than any place along the way other than the finish. A long receiving line of waving, smiling Cambodians awaits us there, extending their hands to be slapped, cheering in a mixture of Khmer and English. I can’t help grinning as I run past. The energy we take from that corner sticks with us for weeks.
And the temples just stay as great as ever. As I’ve said several times, you just can’t ruin these ruins. God knows people have tried. First we run by Prasat Kravan, the Cardamom Sanctuary, whose five brick towers have been restored to their original height but are missing what were once some impressive innards, likely carted off by thieves long ago. Further along is Ta Prohm, traditionally the coolest of Angkor’s untouched temples… until this past year, when the Indian archeologists began “improvements” to protect it from being loved to death. Then there’s Ta Keo, and the Victory Gate, and the Terrace of the Elephants, all of which have a few warts when seen in harsh sunlight, but at that hour—we’re passing by at around 7:30 in the morning—are just about the finest combination of sand and stone anywhere.
Finally the four winds blow us safely home. The race ends where it began, but of course we’re not the same people we were when we started. Another year has gone by. We’ve had a spiritual journey: answered the call, rung the bell, chanted the mantra, emerged from the whale’s belly, rolled away the dew. In the endlessly interpretable words of the Dead:
Some come to laugh their past away
Some come to make it just one more day
Whichever way your pleasure tends
If you plant ice you're gonna harvest wind
The annual trot has become a comforting ritual. For some reason an old Grateful Dead lyric comes to mind:
In another time’s forgotten space
Your eyes looked from your mother's face
Wallflower seed on the sand and stone
May the four winds blow you safely home
Roll away the dew
Whatever that means. I’ve sung that tune countless times to myself, never really caring what it means, but somehow today it seems a fine description of the route taken by this magnificent race course.
We start out protected by a canopy of big trees lining the road that winds through the gigantic archeological park. Leaves drop around us as we settle in to our pace. The first five kilometers include a short out-and-back leg that makes the entire loop come out to be the right distance, which means we get a quick look at the leaders as they sprint by us on their way to finishing in under 90 minutes.
Not long after we leave behind the 200-meter-wide moat that surrounds Angkor Wat, we’re encountering kids by the side of the course. Most are hugging their moms’ legs out of shyness, or staring quizzically, as if to say, “It can ring like fire if you lose your way.” Soon a few have gotten brave enough to wave, and by the third or fourth water station, lots of the volunteers picking up the water bottles that runners cast aside are kids.
Every year I particularly look forward to a certain corner, just about at the halfway point in the race. The running route goes left, but if you were to turn right and go a few hundred meters a lovely reservoir known as Srah Srang (“Royal Bath”) would emerge from the forest. Perhaps this place lies just outside the formal boundaries of the park? or maybe the water source remains important to the locals, just as it was when they dug it out 800 years ago? Whatever the reason, the intersection marks a village, and so is busier with spectators than any place along the way other than the finish. A long receiving line of waving, smiling Cambodians awaits us there, extending their hands to be slapped, cheering in a mixture of Khmer and English. I can’t help grinning as I run past. The energy we take from that corner sticks with us for weeks.
And the temples just stay as great as ever. As I’ve said several times, you just can’t ruin these ruins. God knows people have tried. First we run by Prasat Kravan, the Cardamom Sanctuary, whose five brick towers have been restored to their original height but are missing what were once some impressive innards, likely carted off by thieves long ago. Further along is Ta Prohm, traditionally the coolest of Angkor’s untouched temples… until this past year, when the Indian archeologists began “improvements” to protect it from being loved to death. Then there’s Ta Keo, and the Victory Gate, and the Terrace of the Elephants, all of which have a few warts when seen in harsh sunlight, but at that hour—we’re passing by at around 7:30 in the morning—are just about the finest combination of sand and stone anywhere.
Finally the four winds blow us safely home. The race ends where it began, but of course we’re not the same people we were when we started. Another year has gone by. We’ve had a spiritual journey: answered the call, rung the bell, chanted the mantra, emerged from the whale’s belly, rolled away the dew. In the endlessly interpretable words of the Dead:
Some come to laugh their past away
Some come to make it just one more day
Whichever way your pleasure tends
If you plant ice you're gonna harvest wind
Friday, November 26, 2010
Talking Turkey
Unlike Loy Krathong, Thanksgiving is a holiday Jip can get behind. It’s the one day of the year when she agrees to vary her routine—or at least to trade one routine for another. Eating yams baked with rosemary has become our tradition.
Yesterday we took that dish across town to the home of a colleague, where a few folks from work gathered for the traditional feed. Jip didn’t have any turkey or pie, but she did enjoy the conversation around the table, just as she liked going last year to a gathering of people who all graduated from my college--she felt the banter was more interesting than what she usually hears at home. She seemed at ease right away, even thought she had met only one of the other people before. Partly that comfort is a sign of our hosts being easy to know, but mostly it reflects how much more social Jip has become during the past year or so than she was when we first came back to Thailand.
With this mixed-age, international group she took the opportunity to share her standard advice about how to eat a balanced diet: “Mix colors.” Later in the meal it seemed appropriate for me to tell a turkey day tale
that’s been making the rounds on e-mail.
Once again this year, there’s lots for us to be thankful for.
Yesterday we took that dish across town to the home of a colleague, where a few folks from work gathered for the traditional feed. Jip didn’t have any turkey or pie, but she did enjoy the conversation around the table, just as she liked going last year to a gathering of people who all graduated from my college--she felt the banter was more interesting than what she usually hears at home. She seemed at ease right away, even thought she had met only one of the other people before. Partly that comfort is a sign of our hosts being easy to know, but mostly it reflects how much more social Jip has become during the past year or so than she was when we first came back to Thailand.
With this mixed-age, international group she took the opportunity to share her standard advice about how to eat a balanced diet: “Mix colors.” Later in the meal it seemed appropriate for me to tell a turkey day tale
that’s been making the rounds on e-mail.Once again this year, there’s lots for us to be thankful for.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Loy Krathong in Nonthaburi
As usual Jip this year took a Scrooge-like attitude toward Loy Krathong, saying as she did in 2005, 2006, and 2009 that the holiday has been commercialized and romanticized. She’s right about that part. But here we are in new quarters, with a new place to float, so in the end tonight she went along for the ride and the spectacle was beautiful.
A big banana leaf snipped from the garden out back provided plenty of raw material for more than enough krathongs. Jip’s caregiver and I pushed Jip to a prime spot near the swimming pool where she could hear the frogs as they began to celebrate the evening. We thought we had the place to ourselves, but just as we launched the last of our floating candles, a neighbor family, walking toward the parking lot, noticed what we were up to.
I think the parents had planned to celebrate down at the river, but their children couldn’t wait. Soon the whole pool was illuminated by our combined efforts. The kids were squealing, the frogs were answering, the world was shimmering. Jip grudgingly cracked a smile.
A big banana leaf snipped from the garden out back provided plenty of raw material for more than enough krathongs. Jip’s caregiver and I pushed Jip to a prime spot near the swimming pool where she could hear the frogs as they began to celebrate the evening. We thought we had the place to ourselves, but just as we launched the last of our floating candles, a neighbor family, walking toward the parking lot, noticed what we were up to.
I think the parents had planned to celebrate down at the river, but their children couldn’t wait. Soon the whole pool was illuminated by our combined efforts. The kids were squealing, the frogs were answering, the world was shimmering. Jip grudgingly cracked a smile.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Four Hands
The Angkor Wat half marathon is coming up again. In trying to get ready without getting injured, I altered my training routine this year to include massages on rest days. Considering that every other day is a rest day, you might call this schedule pretty decadent.
Guilty as charged… but I’m pain-free so far, so maybe the plan is working.
One complication I hadn’t foreseen: massage shops close early in our new part of town. At some of them, if you’re not in the door by 7pm, there’s a risk of being told to come back tomorrow. That’s nearly what happened the other day. I showed up around 7:15, figuring I was safe
because I asked for just the one-hour, feet-and-legs-only variety. The three staff had plans to be somewhere at 8. No problem, I said, starting to devise my Plan B.
They beat me to it. “How about I do your right leg, and at the same time she does your left leg, and we wrap up in 30 minutes?” Deal.
Guilty as charged… but I’m pain-free so far, so maybe the plan is working.
One complication I hadn’t foreseen: massage shops close early in our new part of town. At some of them, if you’re not in the door by 7pm, there’s a risk of being told to come back tomorrow. That’s nearly what happened the other day. I showed up around 7:15, figuring I was safe
because I asked for just the one-hour, feet-and-legs-only variety. The three staff had plans to be somewhere at 8. No problem, I said, starting to devise my Plan B.They beat me to it. “How about I do your right leg, and at the same time she does your left leg, and we wrap up in 30 minutes?” Deal.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Old Pals, New Script
Jip had a visit from a few college classmates over the weekend. This group developed strong ties 30 years ago through lots of late night bull sessions. Their interest at that time was student activism.
The political pendulum swung fast in those days. Democratic experiments alternated with direct military rule. Conservative governments were brought down by leftist protests, only to return with the support of large movements that were concerned about the spread of communism. Thousands of dissidents went into the jungle and challenged the government from there about all kinds of issues.
Thailand had been a strong American ally during the war in Vietnam, which was still fresh in the minds of the Thai public when Jip entered college. Many students resented that American airbases inside Thailand weren’t being dismantled.
Jip says she and the friends who came to see us a few days ago protested “American hegemony” in front of the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok. They also chanted over what they said were unfair subsidies given to American rice farmers, which made it impossible for Thai farmers to compete in world markets.
This weekend, they talked about other things. The first one to show up hadn’t seen Jip since graduation. I was surprised to find that he too uses a wheelchair. He arrived in a specially equipped van, with a caregiver in tow. It wasn’t long before he asked Jip about how she prevents bedsores!
His disability has affected his speech. I imagine that some people meeting him for the first time might have trouble understanding him, as happens with Jip. Yet the two of them seemed to catch each other’s words easily, never needing to repeat themselves. Jip’s caregiver and his caregiver when off in a corner to compare notes.
After the others arrived, everyone soon began joking and laughing. They caught up on who has changed jobs, been divorced, gotten which advanced degrees—the usual old stuff. Jip never said so directly, but I sensed that for her the most special part of the afternoon was the new stuff.
The political pendulum swung fast in those days. Democratic experiments alternated with direct military rule. Conservative governments were brought down by leftist protests, only to return with the support of large movements that were concerned about the spread of communism. Thousands of dissidents went into the jungle and challenged the government from there about all kinds of issues.
Thailand had been a strong American ally during the war in Vietnam, which was still fresh in the minds of the Thai public when Jip entered college. Many students resented that American airbases inside Thailand weren’t being dismantled.
Jip says she and the friends who came to see us a few days ago protested “American hegemony” in front of the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok. They also chanted over what they said were unfair subsidies given to American rice farmers, which made it impossible for Thai farmers to compete in world markets.
This weekend, they talked about other things. The first one to show up hadn’t seen Jip since graduation. I was surprised to find that he too uses a wheelchair. He arrived in a specially equipped van, with a caregiver in tow. It wasn’t long before he asked Jip about how she prevents bedsores!
His disability has affected his speech. I imagine that some people meeting him for the first time might have trouble understanding him, as happens with Jip. Yet the two of them seemed to catch each other’s words easily, never needing to repeat themselves. Jip’s caregiver and his caregiver when off in a corner to compare notes.
After the others arrived, everyone soon began joking and laughing. They caught up on who has changed jobs, been divorced, gotten which advanced degrees—the usual old stuff. Jip never said so directly, but I sensed that for her the most special part of the afternoon was the new stuff.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Great Sleeping Weather
Historical average temperatures for October 30:
Conditions don’t get much better than this here. It’s been cooler than normal for late October. Tonight the mercury dipped below 70—a record low for this date in Thailand.
There was none of the usual sweaty forehead on Jip, whose wacky internal thermostat usually leads her to request more blankets than she really needs. I tucked her in at bedtime and then went for a run. In the wonderful humidity-free air, I felt like I could keep going till sunrise.
Now I’m finally home again, googling historical average temperatures. In a minute I’ll look around for whatever blankets are left over, and sleep like a brick.
High Low
Chicago, Illinois 57 (14) 37 (3)
Seattle, Washington 55 (13) 43 (6)
Bangkok, Thailand 88 (31) 73 (23)
Conditions don’t get much better than this here. It’s been cooler than normal for late October. Tonight the mercury dipped below 70—a record low for this date in Thailand.
There was none of the usual sweaty forehead on Jip, whose wacky internal thermostat usually leads her to request more blankets than she really needs. I tucked her in at bedtime and then went for a run. In the wonderful humidity-free air, I felt like I could keep going till sunrise.
Now I’m finally home again, googling historical average temperatures. In a minute I’ll look around for whatever blankets are left over, and sleep like a brick.
Monday, October 25, 2010
No Looking Back
We’ve now been in our new apartment about two months. It’s been a good move in almost every way. There are only two things I miss from our old neighborhood.
One is a pad thai cart that sold a very impressive plate of noodles. I ate there about once a week. I even made a point of stopping to say goodbye to the wok-meister before we left.
The other is a decent DVD rental place. There are video stores where we live now, but mostly the movies are for sale only. Also, the categories are very different from what I was used to. Here is a representative sample of the shelf labels at one of the shops I wandered into this afternoon:
Car Action
Hardboiled
Panic
Sky Action
Splatter
I am not making these up.
One is a pad thai cart that sold a very impressive plate of noodles. I ate there about once a week. I even made a point of stopping to say goodbye to the wok-meister before we left.
The other is a decent DVD rental place. There are video stores where we live now, but mostly the movies are for sale only. Also, the categories are very different from what I was used to. Here is a representative sample of the shelf labels at one of the shops I wandered into this afternoon:
Car Action
Hardboiled
Panic
Sky Action
Splatter
I am not making these up.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Double Birthday in the Midwest
The blurry picture below, taken around 1980, got a nice update last weekend as we all gathered for 
a double celebration of the big round-numbered birthdays of our parents, who were born a month apart in 1930. Fall Midwestern temperatures were perfect for a Saturday picnic and slumber party.
The highlight was watching the beaming smiles on the two guests of honor, as they floated around chatting with their seven kids, six grandkids, and a swarm of significant others. If Jip had made it, we would have had 100% attendance. That turnout—21 showed up for Sunday brunch, from four different time zones—was a fitting tribute to these two marvelous people.
a double celebration of the big round-numbered birthdays of our parents, who were born a month apart in 1930. Fall Midwestern temperatures were perfect for a Saturday picnic and slumber party.The highlight was watching the beaming smiles on the two guests of honor, as they floated around chatting with their seven kids, six grandkids, and a swarm of significant others. If Jip had made it, we would have had 100% attendance. That turnout—21 showed up for Sunday brunch, from four different time zones—was a fitting tribute to these two marvelous people.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Thai Politics, Update
Thailand remains a tinderbox, nearly five months after the capital burned as opposition protesters scattered following a military crackdown on their extended central-city demonstration. Since then, opposition leadership has been silenced through jailings and selective blocking of radio and web communication. Nobody can say how many back-channel conversations are taking place that might lead to reconciliation between people at opposite ends of the political spectrum here.
A bomb went off yesterday in another part of the province next to Bangkok where we just moved. The explosion was quite a distance from our place, but it does serve as a reminder that lots of bitterness remains, in spite of a “Together We Can” campaign started by people representing the silent majority.
An emergency decree outlawing gatherings of more than five people remains in place for Bangkok and surrounding provinces. If elections were held tomorrow, the prime minister’s party would lose and the current government would be replaced by one that would like to bring back Thaksin. It’s still a potent mix here of globalization coming to the villages, obstinacy coming from the old guard, testosterone, fear, and legal mumbo-jumbo.
Somehow, Thailand’s economy churns along. Tourism seems to be rebounding, and the baht has rarely been stronger.
A bomb went off yesterday in another part of the province next to Bangkok where we just moved. The explosion was quite a distance from our place, but it does serve as a reminder that lots of bitterness remains, in spite of a “Together We Can” campaign started by people representing the silent majority.
An emergency decree outlawing gatherings of more than five people remains in place for Bangkok and surrounding provinces. If elections were held tomorrow, the prime minister’s party would lose and the current government would be replaced by one that would like to bring back Thaksin. It’s still a potent mix here of globalization coming to the villages, obstinacy coming from the old guard, testosterone, fear, and legal mumbo-jumbo.
Somehow, Thailand’s economy churns along. Tourism seems to be rebounding, and the baht has rarely been stronger.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Nailbiter
Tennis doesn’t fill stadiums here the way that soccer and Thai boxing do. Just the same, net sports get lots of play—it seems like there’s a game of badminton or takraw in every side street—and some well-regarded pro tennis players have emerged from Thailand in the last decade.
A friend called to offer me a spare ticket to the qualifying rounds of the annual Thailand Open, sounding almost apologetic about the no-names who would be on the program. I didn’t care about seeing Nadal. A day out sounded fun, and it had been a long time since my last chance to see professional sports.
We settled in as Warut Korkiatthaworn took on Alex Bogomolov. It was easy to tell these two apart. One of them won nearly all the points. Isn’t that how things are supposed to turn out on the first day of a pro tournament?
Next up were Dmitry Tursonov, on our left, against Marinko Motosevic, on our right. Or was it the other way around? Who knew? Each of them won his serve. Every time. After an hour of remarkably even play, the first tiebreaker finished 10-8. I was exhausted.
Now I know this wasn’t Roger vs. Rafa at Wimbledon. In the grand scheme of things, these guys were competing for peanuts, in a match that next week will be long forgotten. Yet I wasn’t sure my poor old tired body could handle another set like the first one. It wasn’t just that an hour’s labor had come down to a single point. Nor that tennis etiquette discourages yelling among the spectators, even when yelling is clearly called for.
No, the true cause of my tension was the full-blast air conditioning. This match was taking place in a refrigerated arena, which at that moment housed only a sprinkling of people. If by some chance one of the players hit a ball out of the court and into the stands, most likely it would have landed in an empty seat.
Where were all the tennis fans? Outside, shopping for gear at the crowded exhibition hall. Snapping photos next to the life-size cutouts of Paradorn and his glamorous wife. Lunching on
countless varieties of fast food.
Hardly anyone besides my friend and me knew about the battle of nerves going on inside the deep freeze.
The second set followed the same pattern as the first. By this time we had finally identified Tursonov as the one most anxious to move things along. Unlike Motosevic, he never argued a line call or dawdled during the breaks between games. Perhaps his confidence came from experience: we learned later that at the 2006 Thailand Open, he had won the whole tournament.
Whatever the reason, he prevailed in this match… barely. This time the tiebreaker ended 7-3. Out of 194 points played, Tursonov won only 12 more than Motosevic did. As they walked off the court after two hours, both players looked relieved that it was over. Yet their emancipation was nothing compared to the joy I felt as I walked out into the thawing mid-afternoon sun. I would gladly watch a rematch some day. As long as it is played at room temperature.
A friend called to offer me a spare ticket to the qualifying rounds of the annual Thailand Open, sounding almost apologetic about the no-names who would be on the program. I didn’t care about seeing Nadal. A day out sounded fun, and it had been a long time since my last chance to see professional sports.
We settled in as Warut Korkiatthaworn took on Alex Bogomolov. It was easy to tell these two apart. One of them won nearly all the points. Isn’t that how things are supposed to turn out on the first day of a pro tournament?
Next up were Dmitry Tursonov, on our left, against Marinko Motosevic, on our right. Or was it the other way around? Who knew? Each of them won his serve. Every time. After an hour of remarkably even play, the first tiebreaker finished 10-8. I was exhausted.
Now I know this wasn’t Roger vs. Rafa at Wimbledon. In the grand scheme of things, these guys were competing for peanuts, in a match that next week will be long forgotten. Yet I wasn’t sure my poor old tired body could handle another set like the first one. It wasn’t just that an hour’s labor had come down to a single point. Nor that tennis etiquette discourages yelling among the spectators, even when yelling is clearly called for.
No, the true cause of my tension was the full-blast air conditioning. This match was taking place in a refrigerated arena, which at that moment housed only a sprinkling of people. If by some chance one of the players hit a ball out of the court and into the stands, most likely it would have landed in an empty seat.
Where were all the tennis fans? Outside, shopping for gear at the crowded exhibition hall. Snapping photos next to the life-size cutouts of Paradorn and his glamorous wife. Lunching on
countless varieties of fast food.Hardly anyone besides my friend and me knew about the battle of nerves going on inside the deep freeze.
The second set followed the same pattern as the first. By this time we had finally identified Tursonov as the one most anxious to move things along. Unlike Motosevic, he never argued a line call or dawdled during the breaks between games. Perhaps his confidence came from experience: we learned later that at the 2006 Thailand Open, he had won the whole tournament.
Whatever the reason, he prevailed in this match… barely. This time the tiebreaker ended 7-3. Out of 194 points played, Tursonov won only 12 more than Motosevic did. As they walked off the court after two hours, both players looked relieved that it was over. Yet their emancipation was nothing compared to the joy I felt as I walked out into the thawing mid-afternoon sun. I would gladly watch a rematch some day. As long as it is played at room temperature.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
New Digs, cont.
I already knew that I liked our new neighborhood. Lately I’m appreciating more and more the apartment itself. Though built a couple decades before our previous spot, it has gorgeous and well-maintained gardens, a little lake out back, no peeling paint. The cheerful staff even encourages recycling—not many places in Thailand can say that!
Friday, September 03, 2010
New Digs
Jip and I moved to a new section of the city this week. Technically, we’re in a new province, just over the official Bangkok boundary. On our first morning in the new apartment, Jip identified bird sounds outside the window that she hadn’t heard at our old place. She asked if we had moved to the countryside.
I didn’t want to tell her right away that Nonthaburi no longer looks the way it did before she moved to the U.S. nearly twenty years ago, and that in 2010 it might as well be a part of the Big Mango. If Jip wants to picture the area as mostly open space, I’m not going to pop her balloon.
We’re now surrounded by fewer shophouses and sky train stations, but more car repair chains and coffee shops. The neighborhood includes a small university and a golf driving range. Instead of the elephant carvings that are traditionally offered at Thai temples in appreciation of answered prayers, wooden zebras surround some Nonthaburi temples.
There’s no less traffic here than where we were, but the distance to my office is much shorter— the major reason for the move. We’re also now further from the areas most likely to be centers of political protest. I wish we didn’t have to consider that factor, but it was no fun watching Bangkok burn from our balcony last May. It would be unrealistic to believe that Thailand has seen its final demonstration of the year.
After just a few days, no regrets. In fact, I’m walking around wondering why everybody doesn’t live here. We’re saving tons on the cost of an apartment. An inexpensive van leaves for downtown every 15 minutes or so from a nearby parking lot. Just beyond that is a good massage shop. What more does a body need?
Best of all for us, Jip’s entire caregiver team came along enthusiastically. I had expected we would lose at least one of them in the move. When I first brought up the subject, I was pleased to learn that one has a sister living close by, and another would be shortening her commute considerably. That left the one who is completing her bachelor’s degree at a campus far across town. Even she didn’t mind our new location—it’s just down the road from the mall where her boyfriend recently got a job.
I didn’t want to tell her right away that Nonthaburi no longer looks the way it did before she moved to the U.S. nearly twenty years ago, and that in 2010 it might as well be a part of the Big Mango. If Jip wants to picture the area as mostly open space, I’m not going to pop her balloon.
We’re now surrounded by fewer shophouses and sky train stations, but more car repair chains and coffee shops. The neighborhood includes a small university and a golf driving range. Instead of the elephant carvings that are traditionally offered at Thai temples in appreciation of answered prayers, wooden zebras surround some Nonthaburi temples.There’s no less traffic here than where we were, but the distance to my office is much shorter— the major reason for the move. We’re also now further from the areas most likely to be centers of political protest. I wish we didn’t have to consider that factor, but it was no fun watching Bangkok burn from our balcony last May. It would be unrealistic to believe that Thailand has seen its final demonstration of the year.
After just a few days, no regrets. In fact, I’m walking around wondering why everybody doesn’t live here. We’re saving tons on the cost of an apartment. An inexpensive van leaves for downtown every 15 minutes or so from a nearby parking lot. Just beyond that is a good massage shop. What more does a body need?
Best of all for us, Jip’s entire caregiver team came along enthusiastically. I had expected we would lose at least one of them in the move. When I first brought up the subject, I was pleased to learn that one has a sister living close by, and another would be shortening her commute considerably. That left the one who is completing her bachelor’s degree at a campus far across town. Even she didn’t mind our new location—it’s just down the road from the mall where her boyfriend recently got a job.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Not Muzak
At our offices on the campus of the Ministry of Public Health, outdoor loudspeakers sometimes broadcast background music—pleasant, traditional sounds, usually a woman singing softly. Never a loud guitar, never an advertisement. The kind of thing you might hear at a trendy cafe.
So it’s been quite a jarring and reverberating change to have big construction happening next door. We’re treated throughout the day to the poundpoundpound of a giant hammer, several stories tall. This device whacks its business end against an eighteen-inch-wide, one-hundred-foot-high cement chopstick, again and again and again, until only a tiny fraction of the piling is still visible above the ground. Then the huge machine rolls a few feet and clobbers a new piling, overandoverandover.
Hundreds of pilings await their turn to be brutally pummeled into the earth. Why not drill many holes first, and then bury these long poles that will become the foundation of a future building? Because apparently you have to dig a long way down in Bangkok before you reach anything that can be considered solid. The Earth’s crust in this corner of the continent—once known as the “Venice of Asia”—is mostly muck. We’re talking sea level and below! Can you say “water table?” Can you say “we’re sinking!?”
No wonder nobody in this town props up their structures on rectangles of concrete. Instead, every new project, from simple garden wall all the way up to high-rise hotel, starts with the pounding of pilings. That way, the finished product has a pretty good chance of staying level.
The engineer who explained all this for me also solved a mystery that had been bugging me for some time: he said that Bangkok’s sidewalks crinkle because they rarely have pilings underneath them. Unlike the buildings they pass in front of, the sidewalks float on the city’s slurry soil. That’s why they often consist of small pavers or bricks instead of poured cement blocks, and why it’s not unusual to see large gaps form between the sidewalks and the steps of buildings.
Some day I’m sure we’ll forget these few weeks of trying to tune out what sounds like a hardcore punk rock club next door. Today, I’d rather have Muzak.
So it’s been quite a jarring and reverberating change to have big construction happening next door. We’re treated throughout the day to the poundpoundpound of a giant hammer, several stories tall. This device whacks its business end against an eighteen-inch-wide, one-hundred-foot-high cement chopstick, again and again and again, until only a tiny fraction of the piling is still visible above the ground. Then the huge machine rolls a few feet and clobbers a new piling, overandoverandover.
Hundreds of pilings await their turn to be brutally pummeled into the earth. Why not drill many holes first, and then bury these long poles that will become the foundation of a future building? Because apparently you have to dig a long way down in Bangkok before you reach anything that can be considered solid. The Earth’s crust in this corner of the continent—once known as the “Venice of Asia”—is mostly muck. We’re talking sea level and below! Can you say “water table?” Can you say “we’re sinking!?”
No wonder nobody in this town props up their structures on rectangles of concrete. Instead, every new project, from simple garden wall all the way up to high-rise hotel, starts with the pounding of pilings. That way, the finished product has a pretty good chance of staying level.
The engineer who explained all this for me also solved a mystery that had been bugging me for some time: he said that Bangkok’s sidewalks crinkle because they rarely have pilings underneath them. Unlike the buildings they pass in front of, the sidewalks float on the city’s slurry soil. That’s why they often consist of small pavers or bricks instead of poured cement blocks, and why it’s not unusual to see large gaps form between the sidewalks and the steps of buildings.
Some day I’m sure we’ll forget these few weeks of trying to tune out what sounds like a hardcore punk rock club next door. Today, I’d rather have Muzak.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Leap of Faith
Going back to a place can be tricky when your memories are happy but dated. I knew I was taking a risk returning to Koh Si Chang, the island with the deceptively industrial façade off Thailand’s eastern coast. It had been two years since a pleasing day trip there made me think an overnight would be twice the fun.
But when on arrival we couldn’t find a decent spot for lunch after several minutes of sweaty walking, my friends began to make noises about suddenly needing to be back in town that evening. Things looked up after we hailed a passing “skylab” (the dominant transportation on the island has a unique shape), though our plans remained decidedly uncertain throughout the afternoon.
We had tracked down food and explored a well curated museum of marine life (lots of touch tanks) before we again broached the subject of where to sleep. Our skylab driver mentioned Paree Huts, a new resort at a far corner of the island. However, his credibility had suffered somewhat after we discovered that he had been double dipping—ferrying around other passengers rather than waiting for us at each new circle tour destination as promised, and as my driver two years before had done. I began to have the return-trip-is-never-as-good blues.
That was before we reached Paree Huts. Looking out at an empty Gulf of Thailand rather than at the expanse of supertankers we had navigated on the way to the island, the resort felt far removed from the big city. The manager welcomed us warmly before sending us off across a series of limestone ledges with an intrepid guide to look over the available bungalows.
These bamboo structures seemed to have been designed for the African veldt rather than for the steep side of a rock-strewn island—they were tall and tufty, as though spores had blown in on the wind and established themselves randomly among the crags. Each hut was an engineering marvel, perched on skinny scaffolding but solid when walked in. They never swayed, even when the wind picked up and a rainstorm passed through during the night.
Equally impressive was the design of the swimming pool, which integrated rock outcroppings and cement to form a strange shape that hugged the contour of the hillside. I took a quick dip, my habit when surveying any new lodgings, and quickly determined that the true star among the resort’s water attractions was elsewhere. Sure enough, when we registered, a sign caught our eyes that began, “Please wear a life preserver when jumping off the cliff.” As soon as I saw that, the blues were gone for good.
My friends talked me into waiting until morning to make the leap. The light will be better then, they said, rightly suspecting that I would want photo documentation. I couldn’t wait to get out of bed the next day and head for the edge. Nobody else on land seemed to be awake, so I waited in a life jacket for my cameraman as a seabird and a fisherman each plied the now calm waters in search of sunrise catches.
When the time came to jump, I never hesitated. New memories were being made. Koh Si Chang had risen to the occasion once again.
But when on arrival we couldn’t find a decent spot for lunch after several minutes of sweaty walking, my friends began to make noises about suddenly needing to be back in town that evening. Things looked up after we hailed a passing “skylab” (the dominant transportation on the island has a unique shape), though our plans remained decidedly uncertain throughout the afternoon.
We had tracked down food and explored a well curated museum of marine life (lots of touch tanks) before we again broached the subject of where to sleep. Our skylab driver mentioned Paree Huts, a new resort at a far corner of the island. However, his credibility had suffered somewhat after we discovered that he had been double dipping—ferrying around other passengers rather than waiting for us at each new circle tour destination as promised, and as my driver two years before had done. I began to have the return-trip-is-never-as-good blues.
That was before we reached Paree Huts. Looking out at an empty Gulf of Thailand rather than at the expanse of supertankers we had navigated on the way to the island, the resort felt far removed from the big city. The manager welcomed us warmly before sending us off across a series of limestone ledges with an intrepid guide to look over the available bungalows.
These bamboo structures seemed to have been designed for the African veldt rather than for the steep side of a rock-strewn island—they were tall and tufty, as though spores had blown in on the wind and established themselves randomly among the crags. Each hut was an engineering marvel, perched on skinny scaffolding but solid when walked in. They never swayed, even when the wind picked up and a rainstorm passed through during the night.
Equally impressive was the design of the swimming pool, which integrated rock outcroppings and cement to form a strange shape that hugged the contour of the hillside. I took a quick dip, my habit when surveying any new lodgings, and quickly determined that the true star among the resort’s water attractions was elsewhere. Sure enough, when we registered, a sign caught our eyes that began, “Please wear a life preserver when jumping off the cliff.” As soon as I saw that, the blues were gone for good.
My friends talked me into waiting until morning to make the leap. The light will be better then, they said, rightly suspecting that I would want photo documentation. I couldn’t wait to get out of bed the next day and head for the edge. Nobody else on land seemed to be awake, so I waited in a life jacket for my cameraman as a seabird and a fisherman each plied the now calm waters in search of sunrise catches.
When the time came to jump, I never hesitated. New memories were being made. Koh Si Chang had risen to the occasion once again.
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Grandma Rests
Jip’s grandma passed away peacefully on Monday. She took a nap around noon and never woke up. That morning she refused breakfast for the first time in the 99 years and seven months of this existence (rounded up to 100 years by the designer of a large banner that hung outside the house all week).
Everyone in the village knew her. She wasn’t born there, but since arriving in the 1920s she hadn’t left often. For both of the relatively long periods she spent away from Ban Krud, she was with Jip. They lived together during Jip’s tween years, when her parents sent her to the next province north to attend middle school, a luxury that Ban Krud couldn’t afford at that time. Several years later, Jip took a job in the far north of the country, and invited Grandma to join her for a year. While there, Grandma added a few new basket making tricks to her repertoire.
Just as it takes a village to raise a child, everyone also participates in sending a grandma on to her resting place. This week dozens of people helped cook, put up tents, arrange flowers, and hang the blankets that recently have replaced wreaths as the tribute of choice. It used to be that a coffin would sit surrounded by decorative wreaths, many of them on tripods bearing a sash with the name of the donor. Nobody ever recycled those wreaths. Somewhere along the line a new tradition was born, which allows the merit associated with such a gift to keep on accumulating as the blanket gets donated to a monk at a temple or some other worthy recipient.
Five Thai kings reigned during Grandma’s life. Many years’ worth of stories about her got told during the mourning rituals at the house each evening. This afternoon’s cremation ceremony at the temple was filled to overflowing. At around 11 a.m., loud explosions were set off to let the whole village know that the ceremony would begin soon. By noon every seat was taken and the big open room was buzzing with conversation.
Jip chuckled and grinned throughout, glad to be surrounded by old acquaintances. We brought along
two caregivers, which meant that she didn’t have to repeat her story endlessly to the many neighbors and classmates who hadn’t seen her for a while—in some cases over thirty years! Jip’s mom was also in a good mood. Grandma’s health had been good until about ten months ago. Since then the demands on Mom have been pretty exhausting.
Monks chanted. Boe, the only great-granddaughter, did a fine job reading a biography of Grandma that Jip’s brother Chao had done a fine job of writing. Various people went to the altar for various reasons. And then with a minimum of melodrama, the simple casket was delivered to the crematorium that is a standard part of Thai temples. Chao lifted the large photo of Grandma off its stand and walked it away from the altar, never looking back.
For much of this afternoon’s drive back to Bangkok, Jip closed her eyes and smiled. She had worn the same expression all weekend, shedding a tear only once when Boe read aloud a mention of the time Grandma had spent up north. We both were tired. Outside our bedroom window, card playing, dominoes, and chatting had lasted into the wee hours. Most likely they’ll continue till dawn tonight, as often happens on the seventh and final night of a Thai funeral.
Everyone in the village knew her. She wasn’t born there, but since arriving in the 1920s she hadn’t left often. For both of the relatively long periods she spent away from Ban Krud, she was with Jip. They lived together during Jip’s tween years, when her parents sent her to the next province north to attend middle school, a luxury that Ban Krud couldn’t afford at that time. Several years later, Jip took a job in the far north of the country, and invited Grandma to join her for a year. While there, Grandma added a few new basket making tricks to her repertoire.
Just as it takes a village to raise a child, everyone also participates in sending a grandma on to her resting place. This week dozens of people helped cook, put up tents, arrange flowers, and hang the blankets that recently have replaced wreaths as the tribute of choice. It used to be that a coffin would sit surrounded by decorative wreaths, many of them on tripods bearing a sash with the name of the donor. Nobody ever recycled those wreaths. Somewhere along the line a new tradition was born, which allows the merit associated with such a gift to keep on accumulating as the blanket gets donated to a monk at a temple or some other worthy recipient.Five Thai kings reigned during Grandma’s life. Many years’ worth of stories about her got told during the mourning rituals at the house each evening. This afternoon’s cremation ceremony at the temple was filled to overflowing. At around 11 a.m., loud explosions were set off to let the whole village know that the ceremony would begin soon. By noon every seat was taken and the big open room was buzzing with conversation.
Jip chuckled and grinned throughout, glad to be surrounded by old acquaintances. We brought along
two caregivers, which meant that she didn’t have to repeat her story endlessly to the many neighbors and classmates who hadn’t seen her for a while—in some cases over thirty years! Jip’s mom was also in a good mood. Grandma’s health had been good until about ten months ago. Since then the demands on Mom have been pretty exhausting.Monks chanted. Boe, the only great-granddaughter, did a fine job reading a biography of Grandma that Jip’s brother Chao had done a fine job of writing. Various people went to the altar for various reasons. And then with a minimum of melodrama, the simple casket was delivered to the crematorium that is a standard part of Thai temples. Chao lifted the large photo of Grandma off its stand and walked it away from the altar, never looking back.
For much of this afternoon’s drive back to Bangkok, Jip closed her eyes and smiled. She had worn the same expression all weekend, shedding a tear only once when Boe read aloud a mention of the time Grandma had spent up north. We both were tired. Outside our bedroom window, card playing, dominoes, and chatting had lasted into the wee hours. Most likely they’ll continue till dawn tonight, as often happens on the seventh and final night of a Thai funeral.
Friday, August 06, 2010
French Street Scene
Five weeks after a fantastic reunion in Europe with mes amis and mis amigos, the memories were just starting to fade. Then Jennifer sent these pictures and instantly I was right back there.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Selective Enforcement of Emergency Decree
Hundreds of people gathered in Bangkok a couple days ago, to protest (again) Cambodia’s claim to an ancient temple along the border. Normally such a protest isn’t big news, as the issue flares up every few years. Thai politicians tend to stoke it when they hope to divert the public’s attention away from something more immediate or embarrassing.
But this time an emergency decree was supposedly in force that prevents the assembly of more than five people. Not only that, this protest was led by a fellow who has long been associated with the same group that shut down the airport with impunity during a chaotic week at the end of 2008. (Nobody has yet been prosecuted for that upper-class sit-in, while several people from lower spheres who were involved with this year’s downtown protests have not only been arrested but had their assets frozen.)
Several international human rights groups criticized the government for extending the state of emergency earlier this month. Then last Sunday, a bomb at a bus stop in central Bangkok killed one man and injured several others, around the same time that the government-backed winner of a close parliamentary by-election was announced, leading the prime minister to comment that the extension had been the right decision.
To be consistent in applying the “rule of law” (a concept politicians trot out when it suits), the government would have had to break up Tuesday’s temple dispute gathering. However, in this case the protesters’ cause has wide appeal, as often happens when issues get associated with patriotism. The protest leader acknowledged flouting the decree, but said he was willing to risk the consequences for the sake of “safeguarding Thai sovereignty.”
But this time an emergency decree was supposedly in force that prevents the assembly of more than five people. Not only that, this protest was led by a fellow who has long been associated with the same group that shut down the airport with impunity during a chaotic week at the end of 2008. (Nobody has yet been prosecuted for that upper-class sit-in, while several people from lower spheres who were involved with this year’s downtown protests have not only been arrested but had their assets frozen.)
Several international human rights groups criticized the government for extending the state of emergency earlier this month. Then last Sunday, a bomb at a bus stop in central Bangkok killed one man and injured several others, around the same time that the government-backed winner of a close parliamentary by-election was announced, leading the prime minister to comment that the extension had been the right decision.
To be consistent in applying the “rule of law” (a concept politicians trot out when it suits), the government would have had to break up Tuesday’s temple dispute gathering. However, in this case the protesters’ cause has wide appeal, as often happens when issues get associated with patriotism. The protest leader acknowledged flouting the decree, but said he was willing to risk the consequences for the sake of “safeguarding Thai sovereignty.”
Friday, July 23, 2010
Pee Rahat
Here’s a Thai tradition I hadn’t known about before it was brought to my attention this week. College freshmen routinely receive the name of a sophomore who will shepherd them through the first year of school. The older one (“pee”) gives without expectation of return, providing 
books, treats, advice, rides home. Assignments are random—based on the students’ ID number, or code (“rahat”)—but not voluntary. Everyone gets a pee rahat who is studying the same thing they are. This intradepartmental social service, for some, is the first experience of helping or being helped by a non-family member.
Of course the system’s success varies. Some people I asked about it told me that they couldn’t remember the name of their pee rahat, and admitted that when it was their turn they didn’t take it very seriously. Yet one woman I spoke to remembered the connection to her freshman as “much better than a boyfriend.” She is still in touch with him and his whole family, and feels more like his older sister than like a mentor.
At the core of the tradition is the patron-client relationship that plays out so often in Thai workplaces. People never forget their place in the hierarchy.
books, treats, advice, rides home. Assignments are random—based on the students’ ID number, or code (“rahat”)—but not voluntary. Everyone gets a pee rahat who is studying the same thing they are. This intradepartmental social service, for some, is the first experience of helping or being helped by a non-family member.Of course the system’s success varies. Some people I asked about it told me that they couldn’t remember the name of their pee rahat, and admitted that when it was their turn they didn’t take it very seriously. Yet one woman I spoke to remembered the connection to her freshman as “much better than a boyfriend.” She is still in touch with him and his whole family, and feels more like his older sister than like a mentor.
At the core of the tradition is the patron-client relationship that plays out so often in Thai workplaces. People never forget their place in the hierarchy.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Half a Decade
The verdict on Thailand, five years after arriving here: it’s still working for us. Whether or not it’s working for the average Thai person is another question.
Jip and I continue to be grateful for the many ways both of our lives have improved since we moved from Seattle. We neither expected nor earned that improvement, yet it’s undeniable. We’re healthier, richer, and much sunnier than we would have been had we stayed in the States.
OK, it’s true this place has had its ups and downs in the past year. My return to Bangkok from Spain last month didn’t generate the same little jolt of glad-to-be-home excitement that I’ve felt on most previous returns to Thailand. (Then again, any place would have seemed a little discouraging by contrast with the two weeks I had just spent with some of my favorite people anywhere.)
I'm over that little letdown now. Rainy season in the land of smiles is floating my boat. It’s a great time for running and reflection. Not to mention, Jip is in great form.
Wouldn’t it be great if we could say the same thing about the Thai political discourse? Alas, progress along the reconciliation roadmap is all but invisible. The country’s institutions just don’t seem up to the task of talking.
Maybe those conversations are going on beneath the surface. To the casual observer, though, there’s been virtually no change to the established order here, in spite of the damage done to Thailand’s reputation and economy by the airport occupations and street confrontations. Elites (and that group includes Jip and me, by the way) still follow a different set of rules from everybody else.
Or maybe, in this part of the world, change doesn’t happen through talk. Lots of people here feel it’s best if a few “phuu yai” make the decisions. Democracy, despite its many trappings throughout the region, is often seen as defective at best, pointless at worst.
Having said that, restlessness is definitely in the air. Although right now appears to be an intermission in the ongoing drama of Thai politics, the times they are a-changin’. The 21st century has brought information and influence to people from all walks of life in Thailand. The country’s mood is temperamental, and unlikely to get less so any time soon.
Jip and I continue to be grateful for the many ways both of our lives have improved since we moved from Seattle. We neither expected nor earned that improvement, yet it’s undeniable. We’re healthier, richer, and much sunnier than we would have been had we stayed in the States.
OK, it’s true this place has had its ups and downs in the past year. My return to Bangkok from Spain last month didn’t generate the same little jolt of glad-to-be-home excitement that I’ve felt on most previous returns to Thailand. (Then again, any place would have seemed a little discouraging by contrast with the two weeks I had just spent with some of my favorite people anywhere.)
I'm over that little letdown now. Rainy season in the land of smiles is floating my boat. It’s a great time for running and reflection. Not to mention, Jip is in great form.
Wouldn’t it be great if we could say the same thing about the Thai political discourse? Alas, progress along the reconciliation roadmap is all but invisible. The country’s institutions just don’t seem up to the task of talking.
Maybe those conversations are going on beneath the surface. To the casual observer, though, there’s been virtually no change to the established order here, in spite of the damage done to Thailand’s reputation and economy by the airport occupations and street confrontations. Elites (and that group includes Jip and me, by the way) still follow a different set of rules from everybody else.
Or maybe, in this part of the world, change doesn’t happen through talk. Lots of people here feel it’s best if a few “phuu yai” make the decisions. Democracy, despite its many trappings throughout the region, is often seen as defective at best, pointless at worst.
Having said that, restlessness is definitely in the air. Although right now appears to be an intermission in the ongoing drama of Thai politics, the times they are a-changin’. The 21st century has brought information and influence to people from all walks of life in Thailand. The country’s mood is temperamental, and unlikely to get less so any time soon.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Composite Sketch
A copy of The Economist magazine’s year-end special issue came my way this week. Though it was already several months old, “The World in 2010” seemed worth skimming. An article that asked “Will 2010 Be a Year of Social Unrest?” caught my eye, and I thought of Thailand’s recent troubles.Falling incomes, rising unemployment, and weakened middle classes led off the story—not much new there. Then the piece suggested that a given country’s “vulnerability to unrest depends on a host of factors.” My eyes widened as I scanned the list: degree of income inequality, state of governance, levels of social provision, ethnic tensions, public trust in institutions, history of unrest, and the type of political system (“intermediate regimes that are neither consolidated democracies nor autocracies seem the most vulnerable”). Lots of countries fit lots of those descriptions, but the article described Thailand particularly well.
Last week the government chose to extend the state of emergency in most of the provinces where it had first been declared in April. Western reaction to that decision so far has been critical, suggesting that the continuing arrests of red-shirt leaders and closing of opposition-friendly media outlets can’t help but lead to more violence. The Thai ruling class probably fears that anything hinting at compromise with the demonstrators is an invitation for the military to stage yet another coup.
Even though things are calm at the moment, and signs promoting Thai unity (“Together We Can”) have sprouted up everywhere since mid-May, 2010 will likely be a long year.
Sunday, July 04, 2010
The Cup in Southeast Asia
Fresh from watching Germany take apart Argentina, let’s review Thailand’s reaction to the World Cup so far.
Wound up? Not much, unless you consider most of the country staying awake until 4am, when the marquee matches finish around here, to be a sign of excitement. Caught up? I’d have to say yes, given how many taxi drivers have been able to recall for me the scores from group stage matches that concluded more than two weeks ago (“Greece-Nigeria? That ended 2-1, if I’m not wrong.”) Vocal? Well, having lived in the same apartment for more than three years, we’ve hardly ever heard a sound from our neighbors… until the past few early mornings.
In a word, the Cup is consuming. Walking in to any of the thousands of 7-Eleven stores here, customers are greeted by clerks sporting t-shirts of the favored teams. Flags of the surviving countries hang from the ceilings. Strangers ask each other who they’re cheering for.
Next door in Burma things are apparently even more energized. According to the Irrawaddy magazine, officials there have magically become able to supply the capital with enough electricity to ensure that all of the games are broadcast live and without interruption. Normally Burmese citizens can count on only a few hours of power per day, particularly during the dry season, when hydro plants run at less than full capacity. Finally, the peoples’ interests overlap the government’s!
Wound up? Not much, unless you consider most of the country staying awake until 4am, when the marquee matches finish around here, to be a sign of excitement. Caught up? I’d have to say yes, given how many taxi drivers have been able to recall for me the scores from group stage matches that concluded more than two weeks ago (“Greece-Nigeria? That ended 2-1, if I’m not wrong.”) Vocal? Well, having lived in the same apartment for more than three years, we’ve hardly ever heard a sound from our neighbors… until the past few early mornings.
In a word, the Cup is consuming. Walking in to any of the thousands of 7-Eleven stores here, customers are greeted by clerks sporting t-shirts of the favored teams. Flags of the surviving countries hang from the ceilings. Strangers ask each other who they’re cheering for.
Next door in Burma things are apparently even more energized. According to the Irrawaddy magazine, officials there have magically become able to supply the capital with enough electricity to ensure that all of the games are broadcast live and without interruption. Normally Burmese citizens can count on only a few hours of power per day, particularly during the dry season, when hydro plants run at less than full capacity. Finally, the peoples’ interests overlap the government’s!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Language Re-Learning in Europe
Now and then in Thailand someone asks if I can speak French. I answer, “Oui,” and then manage one or two reasonably understandable sentences before Thai starts pouring out. It’s as if the lobe of the brain where my college French lives has been overwritten by the more recent efforts to learn a new language.
Thai is now the default second. Kick-starting the former tongues requires lots of concentration.
These past two weeks, luxuriating in France and Spain with three separate batches of close pals, I was never sure what was going to flow from my mouth. (photo: John Beach)
It was surprising how quickly the old vocabulary flooded back. Most everything I read on signs in France made sense to me, and when shopkeepers addressed me I always knew what they were talking about. Whether or not I could reply quickly was another story, but with each passing hour I got faster—to the point where I sometimes asked myself how I would have said the same thing in Thai.
Of course I never got beyond a paragraph or two before I started giggling. French seemed like a play language, something designed for Barbie dolls or tea parties. I knew I wouldn’t need to use it for long, so I felt it was fair to have fun with it. Unlike in Thailand, where everyone can tell at a glance that Thai is not my native tongue, in France I was assumed to be fluent until I opened my mouth. The people I spoke to there had only a second or two to adjust themselves to someone mangling their language. I let them know right away that they were dealing with a tourist by overdoing the accent.
Non, je ne regrette rien. Vive le français! Vive la crème brûlée! Laissez les bons temps rouler!
Thai is now the default second. Kick-starting the former tongues requires lots of concentration.
These past two weeks, luxuriating in France and Spain with three separate batches of close pals, I was never sure what was going to flow from my mouth. (photo: John Beach)It was surprising how quickly the old vocabulary flooded back. Most everything I read on signs in France made sense to me, and when shopkeepers addressed me I always knew what they were talking about. Whether or not I could reply quickly was another story, but with each passing hour I got faster—to the point where I sometimes asked myself how I would have said the same thing in Thai.
Of course I never got beyond a paragraph or two before I started giggling. French seemed like a play language, something designed for Barbie dolls or tea parties. I knew I wouldn’t need to use it for long, so I felt it was fair to have fun with it. Unlike in Thailand, where everyone can tell at a glance that Thai is not my native tongue, in France I was assumed to be fluent until I opened my mouth. The people I spoke to there had only a second or two to adjust themselves to someone mangling their language. I let them know right away that they were dealing with a tourist by overdoing the accent.
Non, je ne regrette rien. Vive le français! Vive la crème brûlée! Laissez les bons temps rouler!
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Visit to the Rest Room Between Flights in Turkey En Route Europe for a Fun Reunion with Old Friends
It looked from the outside like a men’s room. A sign outside the door read “MEN.” But the security guard at Istanbul Airport questioned me suspiciously as I moved toward the entrance.
Soon I knew why. Just inside the door, piles of shoes were scattered about. To the left was a large open shower stall, with faucets placed around knee height. The thing I really needed, a urinal, was nowhere to be found.
Then I looked to the right and saw the prayer rugs. Men were resting all around the edges of the large room. It was not a restroom. I backed out, past the smirking security guard, to continue my search.
Soon I knew why. Just inside the door, piles of shoes were scattered about. To the left was a large open shower stall, with faucets placed around knee height. The thing I really needed, a urinal, was nowhere to be found.
Then I looked to the right and saw the prayer rugs. Men were resting all around the edges of the large room. It was not a restroom. I backed out, past the smirking security guard, to continue my search.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Biking in Bangkok
Especially since the recent political troubles have been making headlines internationally, people have written to ask if I’m in any danger when I go out and about in Bangkok. Short answer: no. Personal safety ranks higher here than in most American cities. A longer answer: the biggest Bangkok danger isn’t protests. It’s the unpredictable behavior of motorcycle drivers.
They snake around stopped cars and buses without really looking to see whether the lane they’re entering is really open. They create their own lane where none existed before, or use sidewalks as shortcuts. Luckily I’ve never had a really close encounter, but at least three of Jip’s caregivers have been hit while walking.
Recently a new category of road and sidewalk danger came to my attention. I had set out on a borrowed bicycle to ride though the neighborhoods surrounding the ministry where I work. The plan seemed worth the risk—I expected to stick to mostly quiet streets. My aim was to find a place we might move to that would offer most of the advantages of our current apartment, together with a shorter commute and a cheaper price tag.
The flaw in the excursion was my assumption that bicycles should follow certain traffic rules. For instance, it seemed to me pretty basic that I not ride facing oncoming buses. Yet many bicyclists I encountered were choosing to do just that. For some reason I had never noticed this behavior as a bus passenger. Now, as a fellow rider, it seemed to be happening every few minutes.
All of us might have managed to share the road if Bangkok had such a thing as a dedicated bicycle lane (you’re thinking, “he’s dreaming what?”). Without that luxury of extra room along the shoulder, somebody had to give way. It was always me, especially because many of the riders coming at me turned out to be a rider and a passenger, making them doubly wobbly.
Another unwinnable faceoff: pedal-driven broom sellers. These folks make their living by riding into small lanes and back streets, hawking large objects that surround them as they ride. I assume accidents must happen, considering how much of their vision is blocked by their wares (see the pic at right). Several of these people were coming my way as I rode around town, and I always found a way to let them pass. I that doubt any of them ever saw me.
At one stage I looked over my shoulder and saw rain clouds gathering. By this time I had already decided to return to where the bicycle really lived. The looming downpour made speed even more critical. The wind picked up. Little bits of dirt and straw that had been sitting quietly, minding their own business, suddenly began gyrating. They gave no warning. The unexpected dust devils became even bigger hazards than the unexpected head-on bicycle traffic. It was like riding into a sandstorm. I closed my eyes, praying that a broom seller didn’t appear when I opened them again.
Miraculously, I made it to the bicycle’s true home unscathed, minutes before the rain broke. My dreams of bicycle commuting, however, had suffered a severe setback.
They snake around stopped cars and buses without really looking to see whether the lane they’re entering is really open. They create their own lane where none existed before, or use sidewalks as shortcuts. Luckily I’ve never had a really close encounter, but at least three of Jip’s caregivers have been hit while walking.
Recently a new category of road and sidewalk danger came to my attention. I had set out on a borrowed bicycle to ride though the neighborhoods surrounding the ministry where I work. The plan seemed worth the risk—I expected to stick to mostly quiet streets. My aim was to find a place we might move to that would offer most of the advantages of our current apartment, together with a shorter commute and a cheaper price tag.
The flaw in the excursion was my assumption that bicycles should follow certain traffic rules. For instance, it seemed to me pretty basic that I not ride facing oncoming buses. Yet many bicyclists I encountered were choosing to do just that. For some reason I had never noticed this behavior as a bus passenger. Now, as a fellow rider, it seemed to be happening every few minutes.
All of us might have managed to share the road if Bangkok had such a thing as a dedicated bicycle lane (you’re thinking, “he’s dreaming what?”). Without that luxury of extra room along the shoulder, somebody had to give way. It was always me, especially because many of the riders coming at me turned out to be a rider and a passenger, making them doubly wobbly.
Another unwinnable faceoff: pedal-driven broom sellers. These folks make their living by riding into small lanes and back streets, hawking large objects that surround them as they ride. I assume accidents must happen, considering how much of their vision is blocked by their wares (see the pic at right). Several of these people were coming my way as I rode around town, and I always found a way to let them pass. I that doubt any of them ever saw me.At one stage I looked over my shoulder and saw rain clouds gathering. By this time I had already decided to return to where the bicycle really lived. The looming downpour made speed even more critical. The wind picked up. Little bits of dirt and straw that had been sitting quietly, minding their own business, suddenly began gyrating. They gave no warning. The unexpected dust devils became even bigger hazards than the unexpected head-on bicycle traffic. It was like riding into a sandstorm. I closed my eyes, praying that a broom seller didn’t appear when I opened them again.
Miraculously, I made it to the bicycle’s true home unscathed, minutes before the rain broke. My dreams of bicycle commuting, however, had suffered a severe setback.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Brits vs. Yanks
Even though this time the World Cup isn’t being played on the same continent as Thailand, and even though the games begin pretty late for people who work a regular day, everyone still seems to be fully informed on the morning after. I haven’t been hard core enough to stay up for the games that finish here shortly before the sun comes up.
With one exception. An invitation to join the lads from the old mans’ soccer league was too good to pass up. The match was of course the U.S. vs. England. The place was the Londoner Pub. At our table were four Yanks, two Thais, and a Turk who had gone to college in Louisiana. We were surrounded by about fifteen big screens and five hundred Englishmen. The owner’s son stopped by our table to offer his condolences. He also guaranteed us a protective escort in case the unthinkable happened, and the English side lost. At least that’s what I think he said. His voice got lost amidst the drinking songs, which became progressively louder as kickoff approached.
Technically Bangkok pubs aren’t supposed to serve alcohol after 2am. For this occasion the rules were skirted by requiring that everyone buy drink coupons before 12:30, followed by an announcement at 1am that the pub was officially closed. Nobody left the premises, of course. The event had simply become a “private party” at that point, no longer admitting new “guests.” I gather that at various watering holes around the city, beer after 2am is poured from tea kettles into teacups as another way around the regulations.
Probably you already know about the English captain’s nifty goal in the first five minutes of the match (pandemonium at the Londoner Pub) and the English goalkeeper’s “Hand of Clod” howler that evened the score (shocked silence, followed by a teenybopper-style scream from an excited American fan who was taking a big risk). From that point on, all of us at our table pulled our heads a little lower between our shoulder blades and sent up prayers (answered, thank god) that Wayne Rooney wouldn’t upset the delicate sense of cease-fire that had descended upon the room.
“Dying for a tie” described both nationalities, though each group meant something different by the phrase. The Brits appeared to have collectively lost years off the end of their lives. Meanwhile Yanks were thinking that the final whistle couldn’t come soon enough.
In the end we all made it out of the pub alive.
With one exception. An invitation to join the lads from the old mans’ soccer league was too good to pass up. The match was of course the U.S. vs. England. The place was the Londoner Pub. At our table were four Yanks, two Thais, and a Turk who had gone to college in Louisiana. We were surrounded by about fifteen big screens and five hundred Englishmen. The owner’s son stopped by our table to offer his condolences. He also guaranteed us a protective escort in case the unthinkable happened, and the English side lost. At least that’s what I think he said. His voice got lost amidst the drinking songs, which became progressively louder as kickoff approached.
Technically Bangkok pubs aren’t supposed to serve alcohol after 2am. For this occasion the rules were skirted by requiring that everyone buy drink coupons before 12:30, followed by an announcement at 1am that the pub was officially closed. Nobody left the premises, of course. The event had simply become a “private party” at that point, no longer admitting new “guests.” I gather that at various watering holes around the city, beer after 2am is poured from tea kettles into teacups as another way around the regulations.
Probably you already know about the English captain’s nifty goal in the first five minutes of the match (pandemonium at the Londoner Pub) and the English goalkeeper’s “Hand of Clod” howler that evened the score (shocked silence, followed by a teenybopper-style scream from an excited American fan who was taking a big risk). From that point on, all of us at our table pulled our heads a little lower between our shoulder blades and sent up prayers (answered, thank god) that Wayne Rooney wouldn’t upset the delicate sense of cease-fire that had descended upon the room.
“Dying for a tie” described both nationalities, though each group meant something different by the phrase. The Brits appeared to have collectively lost years off the end of their lives. Meanwhile Yanks were thinking that the final whistle couldn’t come soon enough.
In the end we all made it out of the pub alive.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Summer School
For a while it seemed that everybody here was either really agitated or really depressed about Thailand’s troubles. Around that time, the middle of last month, when things were at their most explosive and the international press was updating standoff stories every few hours, the U.S. Embassy offered to evacuate employees’ family members.
Nobody I know was nervous enough about the situation to accept the offer, which expired today. I did hear a rumor that some international school kids, at risk of failing their finals, had successfully begged their parents to send them away. The program, known in official State Dept.-ese as “Authorized Departure,” demands that the evacuees return immediately after the offer expires. Pity the students who thought they were off the hook. Sounds like their plans for the rest of the month now include summer school.
Generally speaking things are again calm, at least on the surface. A curfew that lasted about ten days, and got progressively shorter as time went on, has now ended (though a state of emergency is still in force). The newspapers are now dominated by stories about politicians talking to one another rather than communicating through the press or via speeches.
Of course it’s just a lull in the action. No doubt a nasty plot is being hatched somewhere out of sight, and cells of people with narrow agendas are regrouping, and the military is scripting its reactions for what to do when the elections don’t turn out right.
Let us pray that all of the leaders associated with the recent conflicts also spend some time in summer school. The craziness of the past few months turns out not to be unique in Thai history. Dead ends, snipers, even arson on a grand scale have all appeared before in the long-running drama soap opera that is politics here.
Thus far I’m not convinced that the lessons of the earlier episodes have been absorbed. Last week Thaksin was formally accused of supporting terrorism, a decision that seems to play right into the hands of his well-paid spin-doctor squad. Coming up are debates about the current flawed constitution, and about lifting the ban on participating in politics for more than 100 members of dissolved parties. Compromise on those controversies will be much tougher now than they might have been before recent events, but looking back at the many examples in Thai history of following the middle way may help move things forward this time.
On a positive note, more than 10,000 volunteers, most of them young, turned out last weekend for a city-sponsored clean-up of the protest sites. Perhaps if the people lead, the leaders will follow?
Nobody I know was nervous enough about the situation to accept the offer, which expired today. I did hear a rumor that some international school kids, at risk of failing their finals, had successfully begged their parents to send them away. The program, known in official State Dept.-ese as “Authorized Departure,” demands that the evacuees return immediately after the offer expires. Pity the students who thought they were off the hook. Sounds like their plans for the rest of the month now include summer school.
Generally speaking things are again calm, at least on the surface. A curfew that lasted about ten days, and got progressively shorter as time went on, has now ended (though a state of emergency is still in force). The newspapers are now dominated by stories about politicians talking to one another rather than communicating through the press or via speeches.
Of course it’s just a lull in the action. No doubt a nasty plot is being hatched somewhere out of sight, and cells of people with narrow agendas are regrouping, and the military is scripting its reactions for what to do when the elections don’t turn out right.
Let us pray that all of the leaders associated with the recent conflicts also spend some time in summer school. The craziness of the past few months turns out not to be unique in Thai history. Dead ends, snipers, even arson on a grand scale have all appeared before in the long-running drama soap opera that is politics here.
Thus far I’m not convinced that the lessons of the earlier episodes have been absorbed. Last week Thaksin was formally accused of supporting terrorism, a decision that seems to play right into the hands of his well-paid spin-doctor squad. Coming up are debates about the current flawed constitution, and about lifting the ban on participating in politics for more than 100 members of dissolved parties. Compromise on those controversies will be much tougher now than they might have been before recent events, but looking back at the many examples in Thai history of following the middle way may help move things forward this time.On a positive note, more than 10,000 volunteers, most of them young, turned out last weekend for a city-sponsored clean-up of the protest sites. Perhaps if the people lead, the leaders will follow?
Monday, May 31, 2010
Buoyant
Thailand’s mood these days may be more downcast than usual, but nobody seems to have told Jip. Her brand of drunk-on-life cheerfulness is delightful. It doesn’t take much to start her chuckling, a little bit like that film character played by Dudley Moore who used to say, “Sometimes I just think funny things.”
Consider this anecdote from last night. As a former nurse, Jip insists that her caregivers wash their hands often. She even loudly counts to ten as they’re scrubbing. That length of time (or about long enough to sing Happy Birthday twice) is thought to be effective at decreasing viruses.
Jip’s regular caregivers hear her count several times a day, and have probably tuned it out. During my turn on Sunday nights, I still listen for her to reach the end, because I know she’ll ask me to do it again if I finish too early. Last night, thinking of my birthday the day before, she switched from counting to singing. She only got through the song once, stopped by her own ripples of laughter.
Consider this anecdote from last night. As a former nurse, Jip insists that her caregivers wash their hands often. She even loudly counts to ten as they’re scrubbing. That length of time (or about long enough to sing Happy Birthday twice) is thought to be effective at decreasing viruses.
Jip’s regular caregivers hear her count several times a day, and have probably tuned it out. During my turn on Sunday nights, I still listen for her to reach the end, because I know she’ll ask me to do it again if I finish too early. Last night, thinking of my birthday the day before, she switched from counting to singing. She only got through the song once, stopped by her own ripples of laughter.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Words on the Street
I’ve been asking Thai friends if they've heard any good jokes about the situation here. Nobody has, and nobody even thinks the question is funny. Everyone seems discouraged about the non-outcome of the protests and the government’s disappointing non-response to the grievances.
Most of these people call Bangkok home. Their feelings range from “freaked out” to “violated.” It’s a tender time. Nobody says they are optimistic about the current leaders’ ability to heal the country’s wounds. I’m not as tapped in to what people are saying in the provinces, but I can guess the mindset there is even more distrustful.
Even if this government were to last until the end of next year, when by law new elections must be called, it certainly has an uphill climb. There will be legal clashes, PR games, lots of money spent, and probably even more violence. Mixed all that together and you get a potent cocktail.
That said, it’s still hard for me to imagine the country disintegrating into “civil war,” a term that all of the various parties in the current conflicts have bandied about over recent weeks. I interpret the use of that phrase as mostly posturing (by the side that doesn’t have any big weapons), and justifying repressive measures (by the side that does).
Most of these people call Bangkok home. Their feelings range from “freaked out” to “violated.” It’s a tender time. Nobody says they are optimistic about the current leaders’ ability to heal the country’s wounds. I’m not as tapped in to what people are saying in the provinces, but I can guess the mindset there is even more distrustful.
Even if this government were to last until the end of next year, when by law new elections must be called, it certainly has an uphill climb. There will be legal clashes, PR games, lots of money spent, and probably even more violence. Mixed all that together and you get a potent cocktail.
That said, it’s still hard for me to imagine the country disintegrating into “civil war,” a term that all of the various parties in the current conflicts have bandied about over recent weeks. I interpret the use of that phrase as mostly posturing (by the side that doesn’t have any big weapons), and justifying repressive measures (by the side that does).
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Day After
Usually international news accounts make things look worse than they really are. Today the reports I read about last night’s many arsons don’t seem strong enough. The fires were so widespread, so efficient, and so simultaneous that it’s hard to believe they were the work of random mob members acting alone.When the smoke finally cleared today, I couldn’t see any sign that the political dialogue had advanced from where things stood before the current round of protests began.
The public mood is a mixture of denial, depression, and disbelief. Over and over I hear, referring to the self-destructive forms that mass protest has taken here during the past couple of years, “this isn’t Thailand.” Perhaps the country has weathered worse identity crises in the past, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch this time.
Jip’s sensitive nose is confused by all the new smells in the air.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Devastating Day for Thailand
Bangkok is on fire. Outside, smoke from a few miles away hides the downtown high-rises. Inside, the smell of burning plastic has started to cling to our clothes.
Another way of measuring how nerve-wracking today was: the U.S. Embassy sends text messages to suggest avoiding certain areas. Since last Thursday I've received two or three per day. Today I got ten. The number of texts each day for the previous week:
May 13 – 2
May 14 – 3
May 15 – 2
May 16 – 0
May 17 – 3
May 18 – 2
May 19 – 10
Jip and I are safe.
Another way of measuring how nerve-wracking today was: the U.S. Embassy sends text messages to suggest avoiding certain areas. Since last Thursday I've received two or three per day. Today I got ten. The number of texts each day for the previous week:
May 13 – 2
May 14 – 3
May 15 – 2
May 16 – 0
May 17 – 3
May 18 – 2
May 19 – 10
Jip and I are safe.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Crackdown
Today is Day 2 of an effort by the government to clear protesters out of the area they have dominated for about two months. Things are not good.
I keep thinking about two books I’ve been reading recently. Team of Rivals is an American Civil War history about President Lincoln’s cabinet, which he carefully constructed to give him diverse opinions and to represent many factions. The book highlights Lincoln’s leadership style, emphasizing how in touch he was with the public mood and with the troops. Finding a Lincoln to lead Thailand during this time of trouble might be asking too much. Making sure that Abhisit is surrounded by varied voices would seem to be a smart strategy. I wonder how good his information is, as he holes up at an army base north of town.
The Coldest Winter recounts the story of the Korean War. With 20/20 hindsight, the author suggests several missed opportunities for ending the conflict that ultimately ended in a draw. Those moments came and went, says the author, because so many of the leaders were true believers, overly convinced of the rightness of their cause.
Jip and I are safe.
I keep thinking about two books I’ve been reading recently. Team of Rivals is an American Civil War history about President Lincoln’s cabinet, which he carefully constructed to give him diverse opinions and to represent many factions. The book highlights Lincoln’s leadership style, emphasizing how in touch he was with the public mood and with the troops. Finding a Lincoln to lead Thailand during this time of trouble might be asking too much. Making sure that Abhisit is surrounded by varied voices would seem to be a smart strategy. I wonder how good his information is, as he holes up at an army base north of town.
The Coldest Winter recounts the story of the Korean War. With 20/20 hindsight, the author suggests several missed opportunities for ending the conflict that ultimately ended in a draw. Those moments came and went, says the author, because so many of the leaders were true believers, overly convinced of the rightness of their cause.
Jip and I are safe.
Friday, May 07, 2010
Cell Number Remote Sensing
A report came my way of a new technology being used in the area of the red-shirt protests. Somebody I know claims he was sitting in a café not far from the center of the action, when his phone alerted him that he had a text message. He was surprised to read that the military was recommending that he leave the area immediately.
“How do they know where I am?” he thought. A few calls to friends in other parts of the city convinced him that the text was indeed only being sent to people in the vicinity of the several city blocks that have been under the control of the red shirts for going on 50 days already. Presumably some GPS-like device had detected his phone and generated the text.
Since then I’ve spoken to two other people who got similar text messages while riding the sky train through the affected area. Most likely a record of their phone numbers is now stored in some government computer, thus allowing some government official to cooperate with the phone companies to look up who was where when. Video surveillance is one thing, but this kind of remote sensing technique brings new meaning to the term Big Brother.
“How do they know where I am?” he thought. A few calls to friends in other parts of the city convinced him that the text was indeed only being sent to people in the vicinity of the several city blocks that have been under the control of the red shirts for going on 50 days already. Presumably some GPS-like device had detected his phone and generated the text.Since then I’ve spoken to two other people who got similar text messages while riding the sky train through the affected area. Most likely a record of their phone numbers is now stored in some government computer, thus allowing some government official to cooperate with the phone companies to look up who was where when. Video surveillance is one thing, but this kind of remote sensing technique brings new meaning to the term Big Brother.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Jip’s Feisty Self Returns
She is now up to her same old rascal-y ways. The relatively docile, sleep-though-the-night Jip who was discharged from the hospital just under a month ago seems to have been nothing more than an avatar. I knew that the Jip we’re all used to had returned when I realized a few days ago that she was again insisting on pre-sniffing all of her clothing, on supervising in the kitchen, and on generally running the show around here.
Welcome back!
Welcome back!
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Limbo Time
On Monday night the prime minister went on TV with a road map. Now it’s limbo time. Have the protesters decided to begin negotiating seriously? Will the barricades they’ve set up begin to come down? Will the threatened counter-protests now be called off? Are the government’s offers to call elections serious?
Those three reputed Chinese curses come to mind:
May you live in interesting times
May you come to the attention of those in authority
May you find what you are looking for
Those three reputed Chinese curses come to mind:
May you live in interesting times
May you come to the attention of those in authority
May you find what you are looking for
Sunday, May 02, 2010
This is Not About Issues
Thailand’s political crisis boils down to rich against poor, right? Whose turn it is to get how much power? How far democracy will be allowed to go in Thailand? The role of the royal family? At least those are some of the questions Westerners might ask in trying to understand the latest events here. We are taught to think first of causes.
Thais see the headlines differently, I suspect. Through their eyes the current struggle is about the relationships between the various red and yellow personalities. Some of the stuff that has gone down over the past couple of years amounts to settling old scores, saving face, and following the lead of the “phuu yai,” a term in Thai that translates as chief, superior, principal, or head man. In Thailand historically there’s lots of precedent for doing what the phuu yai says, regardless of whether or not he’s right. Loyalty to him today will pay dividends tomorrow.
Conspicuously absent in the dialogue are issues, at least in the sense that the term is traditionally used in Western politics. Speeches revolve around how bad the other guys are, not around specifically how things will be better under us.
Further complicating the conflict is the emphasis on national unity that is instilled in most Thai people from an early age. The Thai nation is a relatively young concept—some would say less than 100 years old. As borders have been better defined, successive governments have sought to also define who is Thai. That effort led to a change in the country’s name from Siam (circa
1939) and to national school curricula that promote a common language, history, and religion. To watch Thailand split apart is therefore especially uncomfortable for many people who grew up here. Little wonder that Westerners and Thais hear different things when Thai leaders speak.
Thais see the headlines differently, I suspect. Through their eyes the current struggle is about the relationships between the various red and yellow personalities. Some of the stuff that has gone down over the past couple of years amounts to settling old scores, saving face, and following the lead of the “phuu yai,” a term in Thai that translates as chief, superior, principal, or head man. In Thailand historically there’s lots of precedent for doing what the phuu yai says, regardless of whether or not he’s right. Loyalty to him today will pay dividends tomorrow.
Conspicuously absent in the dialogue are issues, at least in the sense that the term is traditionally used in Western politics. Speeches revolve around how bad the other guys are, not around specifically how things will be better under us.
Further complicating the conflict is the emphasis on national unity that is instilled in most Thai people from an early age. The Thai nation is a relatively young concept—some would say less than 100 years old. As borders have been better defined, successive governments have sought to also define who is Thai. That effort led to a change in the country’s name from Siam (circa
1939) and to national school curricula that promote a common language, history, and religion. To watch Thailand split apart is therefore especially uncomfortable for many people who grew up here. Little wonder that Westerners and Thais hear different things when Thai leaders speak.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Pray for Rain
On Wednesday a potentially deadly confrontation flared up in the middle of a blocked highway near the old airport. Tensions were so high that some bystanders began calling loved ones to say goodbye, fearing that they would be caught in crossfire.
Thai soldiers stopped a large procession of red-shirt protesters from driving north out of town. The army leadership said later that they thought the convoy of red-shirt vehicles was likely planning to prevent groups of soldiers from upcountry from reaching Bangkok. Earlier in the week, troop trains had been temporarily been halted in the provinces by people sympathetic to the anti-government point of view.
So now here was another altercation, less than a week after rockets had been fired from who-knows-where, landing at a downtown sky train station and injuring several people. Everyone knew that the bullets on both sides of the highway standoff weren’t likely to be made of just rubber.
Our office was holding a meeting several hours south of Bangkok. A woman from my group, whose father had been sent to the highway scene for reasons connected to his civilian job, only learned how scared he had been when she saw several missed calls on her cell phone.
In the end, one soldier died, reportedly from friendly fire. The situation was only defused by a sudden heavy rainfall.
Thai soldiers stopped a large procession of red-shirt protesters from driving north out of town. The army leadership said later that they thought the convoy of red-shirt vehicles was likely planning to prevent groups of soldiers from upcountry from reaching Bangkok. Earlier in the week, troop trains had been temporarily been halted in the provinces by people sympathetic to the anti-government point of view.
So now here was another altercation, less than a week after rockets had been fired from who-knows-where, landing at a downtown sky train station and injuring several people. Everyone knew that the bullets on both sides of the highway standoff weren’t likely to be made of just rubber.
Our office was holding a meeting several hours south of Bangkok. A woman from my group, whose father had been sent to the highway scene for reasons connected to his civilian job, only learned how scared he had been when she saw several missed calls on her cell phone.
In the end, one soldier died, reportedly from friendly fire. The situation was only defused by a sudden heavy rainfall.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
New Violence
Nobody died of protest-related violence for several days following the night of April 10, when twenty-plus (the original estimates were 8-18) protesters and soldiers were shot dead near Democracy Monument. The tension hasn’t lessened, but people’s nervousness has unfortunately started to seem normal. Nobody I know has been hurt, but nearly everyone I know expresses a mixture of discouragement and fright.
The number of protesters and soldiers standing off against each other have risen and fallen daily, but by and large they’re now concentrating in a known part of Bangkok. For most people who prefer not to be involved, that consolidation means clashes are easy to avoid. This part of town is several miles from where we live, and it’s not on the way to where I work.
Then last night explosions hurt several people, and killed one. I happened to be at a book club gathering. The host’s apartment was walking distance from the place where the person died. We didn’t hear any loud sounds, but in the middle of our meeting, suddenly everyone began to get text messages at the same time. We stopped talking and turned on the TV.
It emerged that the trouble was also quite close to the apartment of one of our members. She had left the meeting early because she wasn’t feeling well. A quick call reassured us that she had reached home safely, but there was definitely no going back to discussing the book we had all read.
Not since September 11th do I recall a topic being so close to the surface. The red-yellow-multicolor conflict is the kind of all-encompassing, unavoidable subject that you wake up to and fall asleep to. With a mixture of fascination and dread, you are lured to check the news often. Nearly all conversations here now eventually find their way to the question, “How will this all end?”
The number of protesters and soldiers standing off against each other have risen and fallen daily, but by and large they’re now concentrating in a known part of Bangkok. For most people who prefer not to be involved, that consolidation means clashes are easy to avoid. This part of town is several miles from where we live, and it’s not on the way to where I work.
Then last night explosions hurt several people, and killed one. I happened to be at a book club gathering. The host’s apartment was walking distance from the place where the person died. We didn’t hear any loud sounds, but in the middle of our meeting, suddenly everyone began to get text messages at the same time. We stopped talking and turned on the TV.
It emerged that the trouble was also quite close to the apartment of one of our members. She had left the meeting early because she wasn’t feeling well. A quick call reassured us that she had reached home safely, but there was definitely no going back to discussing the book we had all read.
Not since September 11th do I recall a topic being so close to the surface. The red-yellow-multicolor conflict is the kind of all-encompassing, unavoidable subject that you wake up to and fall asleep to. With a mixture of fascination and dread, you are lured to check the news often. Nearly all conversations here now eventually find their way to the question, “How will this all end?”
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Improvement at Home
Jip’s low sodium episode ten days ago was unfortunately the worst one she has ever had, so she has taken longer than usual a while to bounce back. Luckily, it looks as if she will be as good as new, perhaps even better. The caregivers all report that she seems happier than before, and less married to her routines. Clearly the rough episode caused changes to Jip’s brain. The next few weeks will tell if they’re permanent changes, and if they’re as positive as they now appear.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Water Cooler
First day back at the office today after a trip to the U.S. and a long series of days off connected to Thai New Year. Politics of course dominated the water cooler conversations. Everyone I spoke to wishes that things would just return to normal, even though they know that there’s no longer such a thing. The balance of power has probably changed forever in Thailand.
Everyone is affected this time, unlike the other tumultuous episodes over the past couple years. There’s a heightened jumpiness, and more black humor than usual. Nobody wants a crackdown, but we all expect it. People’s feelings yo-yo between hope and dread.
Here’s another discouraging side to the standoff: lots of families are split over which side is right. I’ve heard several stories of adult children who can’t stand to talk politics with their parents ever since the protests began in earnest last month. One woman I know decided to go on a week-long meditation retreat rather than face her dad’s rants.
It’s another measure of how passionate people have become about the seismic societal shifts taking place. Everybody in this country is taught to respect mom and dad. Arguments, when they happened at all, used to be caused by money or love or alcohol—not by political affairs.
Everyone is affected this time, unlike the other tumultuous episodes over the past couple years. There’s a heightened jumpiness, and more black humor than usual. Nobody wants a crackdown, but we all expect it. People’s feelings yo-yo between hope and dread.
Here’s another discouraging side to the standoff: lots of families are split over which side is right. I’ve heard several stories of adult children who can’t stand to talk politics with their parents ever since the protests began in earnest last month. One woman I know decided to go on a week-long meditation retreat rather than face her dad’s rants.
It’s another measure of how passionate people have become about the seismic societal shifts taking place. Everybody in this country is taught to respect mom and dad. Arguments, when they happened at all, used to be caused by money or love or alcohol—not by political affairs.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Recon
The sky train was up and running again today, allowing me the chance to get a bird’s-eye view of the site that for several days has been the center of red shirt activity. Very weird to ride past the big malls and see them shuttered. Normally the plazas outside these commercial centers are bustling with teenagers and tourists. Now they are packed with swaying protesters listening to round-the-clock speeches. Camped in the shady doorways of the malls are people resting on mats, taking a break from the sun.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Strange Times, Part Three
Bangkok streets were pretty quiet here today and yesterday. On buses and on foot in many parts of the city, I never saw a red shirt. The only demonstration I came across was a counter-protest in the center of Victory Monument. About 400 people waved Thai flags and held signs that said in Thai "Don't dissolve parliament" and in English "Stop red shirt violence" and "Stop hurting Thailand." I went past the street that leads to the major malls where the red shirts have now consolidated, saw traffic moving in every direction, but didn't walk down toward the epicenter for a closer look. For a couple of days the sky train has been running only through the stations at the far ends of each line. If you want to go to the center of town you have to find another way to go.
What comes next? The papers suggest that the courts may dissolve the Democrat Party. Officially, that move would be explained as punishment for some long-ago electoral infraction. Practically, it would be payback for a similar decision handed down against the parties that used to be in power before the current government was installed by the courts about eighteen months ago. Dissolving the Democrats would also offer Abhisit a face-saving exit: he wouldn’t be directly blamed for what has increasingly been described as a fiasco last Saturday night, when the army’s attempt to clear the streets of red shirts ended in bloodshed.
What comes next? The papers suggest that the courts may dissolve the Democrat Party. Officially, that move would be explained as punishment for some long-ago electoral infraction. Practically, it would be payback for a similar decision handed down against the parties that used to be in power before the current government was installed by the courts about eighteen months ago. Dissolving the Democrats would also offer Abhisit a face-saving exit: he wouldn’t be directly blamed for what has increasingly been described as a fiasco last Saturday night, when the army’s attempt to clear the streets of red shirts ended in bloodshed.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Strange Times, Part Two
As if times here weren't already weird enough, Jip had a setback last week that landed her in the hospital for four days and has taken some of her feistiness away. On learning the news, I flew back from the States a day ahead of schedule. Jip was lying in a special ward with a feeding tube up her nose. The caregivers were shaking their heads, wondering what happened to the Jip they knew. We're all missing the banter. Hope it returns quickly.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Strange Times
Headlines in this morning’s Bangkok newspapers are the most discouraging in a long time: “Thais Kill Thais.” Depending on whose reports you believe, the number of dead following a clash last night near Democracy Monument is either 8 or 18. Both the army and the red shirts lost people, hundreds more were hurt.Thailand, nonconfrontational by nature, doesn’t do conflict very well. Historically, however, it has been quite good at compromise. Let’s hope there’s still time for that.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Midwest at its Prime
In the center of the U.S., it’s the best time of year to be outdoors. Atlanta was gorgeous last week when I was there for a work conference. Over Easter weekend at my parents’ house, I went for a couple of great runs, the kind where the weather is crisp enough that you feel you could go forever. Today, Michigan is in fine form. I’d forgotten many of the flowering plants I grew up with.
As pleasant as it is to live in Thailand, the April heat is no picnic. This dose of real spring definitely floats my root beer.
As pleasant as it is to live in Thailand, the April heat is no picnic. This dose of real spring definitely floats my root beer.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Blood in the Streets
Red-shirt activity picked up over the last couple days. The protesters scored a big PR victory this morning by pouring a few liters of a blood-like liquid into the prime minister’s driveway. Last night they did the same thing outside his office.
There’s lots left over—some reports suggested that as many as 50,000 people stood in line under a hot sun in order to donate 10cc each. No matter whether it gets used for anything else (somebody said an artwork is planned), the stunt made a big splash.
It worked on several levels. Blood’s color matches the protesters’ shirts. It symbolizes sacrifice. The spilling managed to recall countless previous struggles in which people gave up their lives, but it did so nonviolently. Newspapers all around the globe put the story on page 1.
Most likely this drama was dreamt up by well-paid image consultants. If so, they know their audience.
The photo op began with a ceremony conducted by a white-shirted Brahmin priest, whose black-magic incantations I’m told appeal to the red shirts’ rural base. (The photo at right was stolen from a news website—I wasn’t there.)
Yesterday’s blood, which had been mixed with anticoagulants and plenty of disinfectant, was quickly mopped up by dozens of workers who were standing by, dressed for the party in biohazard gear. Today, buckets of rain happened to fall just as the protesters were emptying their liter bottles on the prime minister’s fence.
Health professionals were dismayed by the waste. Others said the displays would ultimately hurt the red shirts’ chances of achieving the power shift they say they want. To me the whole performance seemed like a big win.
There’s lots left over—some reports suggested that as many as 50,000 people stood in line under a hot sun in order to donate 10cc each. No matter whether it gets used for anything else (somebody said an artwork is planned), the stunt made a big splash.
It worked on several levels. Blood’s color matches the protesters’ shirts. It symbolizes sacrifice. The spilling managed to recall countless previous struggles in which people gave up their lives, but it did so nonviolently. Newspapers all around the globe put the story on page 1.
Most likely this drama was dreamt up by well-paid image consultants. If so, they know their audience.
The photo op began with a ceremony conducted by a white-shirted Brahmin priest, whose black-magic incantations I’m told appeal to the red shirts’ rural base. (The photo at right was stolen from a news website—I wasn’t there.)Yesterday’s blood, which had been mixed with anticoagulants and plenty of disinfectant, was quickly mopped up by dozens of workers who were standing by, dressed for the party in biohazard gear. Today, buckets of rain happened to fall just as the protesters were emptying their liter bottles on the prime minister’s fence.
Health professionals were dismayed by the waste. Others said the displays would ultimately hurt the red shirts’ chances of achieving the power shift they say they want. To me the whole performance seemed like a big win.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Million Man March?
Things have been pretty quiet politically in Thailand, at least on the surface. No big protests, no elections to serve as flash points, no sign that the king’s health is any better or worse (he’s been in the hospital for nearly six months straight, suffering from what are always referred to in the press as respiratory ailments).
A couple weeks back the high court handed down a long-awaited decision on the seizure of Thaksin’s assets, many of which have been frozen in Thai banks ever since the coup that ousted him as prime minister. We’re not talking about chump change here—the sum under consideration was in the neighborhood of $2.3 billion.
The court’s judgment was very Thai. It split the difference. In essence the verdict was to let Thaksin keep his pre-prime-minister money and let Thailand keep his post-prime-minister money. What this does is make the country a tiny bit richer and Thaksin a tiny bit poorer. What it doesn’t do is heal the political divide in Thailand. No matter which side you fell on before the decision, you still have basically the same complaints after the decision.
Hence this weekend’s latest in a series of “final showdowns,” attempts to rally wearers of one shirt color or another in support of a new government. One such showdown by the yellow shirts, at the airport 15 months ago, achieved the desired result. Now it’s the opposition red shirts’ turn. They threatened to tie up traffic at several points around the city. People took them seriously: everyone worried enough on Friday about clogged roads that many offices, including mine, urged everyone to go home at noon.
The next day, the streets and sky train seemed eerily empty, as if people thought they might get caught in some kind of crossfire if they went out. At the restaurants where I ate lunch and dinner, the staff were delighted to finally see customers. The rallies, which were held far from where we live, reportedly attracted nowhere near the million people that organizers hoped for. Maybe a million people were scared into staying home and off the streets?
A couple weeks back the high court handed down a long-awaited decision on the seizure of Thaksin’s assets, many of which have been frozen in Thai banks ever since the coup that ousted him as prime minister. We’re not talking about chump change here—the sum under consideration was in the neighborhood of $2.3 billion.
The court’s judgment was very Thai. It split the difference. In essence the verdict was to let Thaksin keep his pre-prime-minister money and let Thailand keep his post-prime-minister money. What this does is make the country a tiny bit richer and Thaksin a tiny bit poorer. What it doesn’t do is heal the political divide in Thailand. No matter which side you fell on before the decision, you still have basically the same complaints after the decision.
Hence this weekend’s latest in a series of “final showdowns,” attempts to rally wearers of one shirt color or another in support of a new government. One such showdown by the yellow shirts, at the airport 15 months ago, achieved the desired result. Now it’s the opposition red shirts’ turn. They threatened to tie up traffic at several points around the city. People took them seriously: everyone worried enough on Friday about clogged roads that many offices, including mine, urged everyone to go home at noon.
The next day, the streets and sky train seemed eerily empty, as if people thought they might get caught in some kind of crossfire if they went out. At the restaurants where I ate lunch and dinner, the staff were delighted to finally see customers. The rallies, which were held far from where we live, reportedly attracted nowhere near the million people that organizers hoped for. Maybe a million people were scared into staying home and off the streets?
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Trust in Allah But Tie Up Your Camel
This is a story about suspicion.
It takes place on a Saturday morning in Bangkok. Thai post offices close at noon on Saturdays. I show up with five minutes to spare. My fat manila envelope is addressed to a nice couple in Seattle. These folks have told me in past letters that they’re stamp collectors.
I ask the guy at the window not to use the postage meter like they usually do these days. “My friends like to see the Thai stamps,” I say. He weighs the envelope and lets me know how much. His colleague stands near the door, waiting to lock up.
“All set,” he says, handing me my change. Only problem is, he hasn’t put on the stamps yet. Paying for stamps in Thailand isn’t a guarantee of getting stamps. Somebody told me once that you shouldn’t leave the counter until you see the postmark applied.
I’m thinking: should I stall?... nobody is behind me in line… I’m the last customer… If I hang around, it’s going to look pretty obvious that I don’t believe this guy is honest… yet I should verify... I want my friends to get this package, which took a while to put together… and the price wasn’t cheap.
I bend down and reach into my backpack, pretending to look for something, hoping he’ll start reaching in his drawer for the stamps. Instead he gets up, walks over to another window, and starts talking to the guy who’s totaling up that till. Now I’m sure I’m being cheated. They’re probably all in on the scam. The one near the door signals that the office is getting ready to close.
Next I fumble with my reading glasses, as if I need to get them sorted out before I move along. The stamp seller returns to his window and fumbles with something I can’t see, as if he needs to tidy up his desk before he moves along. Nobody says anything. I feel like all eyes are on me. The word in Thai for “postmark” escapes me, so I don’t ask.
Just as I’m about to stand up and demand to see my package, he holds it up. Every square inch, except the places where I wrote the addresses, is covered with stamps. All of the denominations are different. There are no duplicates. It suddenly hits me that the guy had gone over to his buddy’s window to get a few different issues to add to the diversity.
I’m standing there feeling like dog crap as I look at his artwork. It’s a beautiful gift from a Thai civil servant to a couple he has never met on the other side of the planet. We both smile really wide. No hard feelings.
It takes place on a Saturday morning in Bangkok. Thai post offices close at noon on Saturdays. I show up with five minutes to spare. My fat manila envelope is addressed to a nice couple in Seattle. These folks have told me in past letters that they’re stamp collectors.
I ask the guy at the window not to use the postage meter like they usually do these days. “My friends like to see the Thai stamps,” I say. He weighs the envelope and lets me know how much. His colleague stands near the door, waiting to lock up.
“All set,” he says, handing me my change. Only problem is, he hasn’t put on the stamps yet. Paying for stamps in Thailand isn’t a guarantee of getting stamps. Somebody told me once that you shouldn’t leave the counter until you see the postmark applied.
I’m thinking: should I stall?... nobody is behind me in line… I’m the last customer… If I hang around, it’s going to look pretty obvious that I don’t believe this guy is honest… yet I should verify... I want my friends to get this package, which took a while to put together… and the price wasn’t cheap.
I bend down and reach into my backpack, pretending to look for something, hoping he’ll start reaching in his drawer for the stamps. Instead he gets up, walks over to another window, and starts talking to the guy who’s totaling up that till. Now I’m sure I’m being cheated. They’re probably all in on the scam. The one near the door signals that the office is getting ready to close.
Next I fumble with my reading glasses, as if I need to get them sorted out before I move along. The stamp seller returns to his window and fumbles with something I can’t see, as if he needs to tidy up his desk before he moves along. Nobody says anything. I feel like all eyes are on me. The word in Thai for “postmark” escapes me, so I don’t ask.Just as I’m about to stand up and demand to see my package, he holds it up. Every square inch, except the places where I wrote the addresses, is covered with stamps. All of the denominations are different. There are no duplicates. It suddenly hits me that the guy had gone over to his buddy’s window to get a few different issues to add to the diversity.
I’m standing there feeling like dog crap as I look at his artwork. It’s a beautiful gift from a Thai civil servant to a couple he has never met on the other side of the planet. We both smile really wide. No hard feelings.
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