Big Anniversary

King Bhumibol is the focus of a nationwide gala. Thailand is in holiday mode, big-time. I can’t think what the equivalent would be in the States. Probably what’s happening here this week simply couldn’t happen there at this moment in history. In a nutshell, the celebration is about unanimity.

Everyone agrees that the king is a great guy. And because as of yesterday he had been on the throne for sixty years, making him the longest-serving monarch on the planet, everyone feels drawn to hit the streets, or to put on a yellow shirt, or at least to light a candle, in his honor.

Granted, I’m not reading the Thai press, or following the many commemorative events with the perspective of a native. So if there are critics out there who feel that this massive party is too much, I probably wouldn’t know about them. But on the surface, the depth of feeling seems genuine. A Thai woman at work told me, “If anything happened to the king, I would cry for three months.” From what I’ve seen, she speaks for millions.

So, for a few more days, the fireworks and barge processions and exhibits and banquets for royals from 25 other countries will continue, and the traffic will snarl, and the regular street vendors will be forbidden on the sidewalks. And then when it’s all over, even though the political situation in Thailand is as messy as it is in most places in the world, moving forward will be a little bit easier. The glow from this week’s events should last a long time.

Comfort from Home

My sister Murph came to visit, bearing gifts. It happened to be my birthday, so I made out well. But Jip really scored. She had put together a request list of provisions that are difficult to get here. Murph succeeded on every count.

For the record, here was Jip’s inventory: dried blueberries (a staple at breakfast, but very expensive in Bangkok), colorful cotton socks (Jip still claims her feet are cold, and that locally made socks won’t warm them up), a collection of hairdresser’s capes that don’t smell like plastic (the better to keep her comfortable at tooth brushing time), brown rice crackers (you’d think they’d be easy to find here, but the Thai brands are flavored with things Jip doesn’t like), and, as a bonus, a just-published book by my cousin’s husband that Jip is enjoying having read to her (Miracles on the Water, by Tom Nagorski, Hyperion).

Then there was an envelope full of cash, provided by a very generous aunt, which allowed Murph and me to live large on an island while she got over jet lag. Normally we’d have opted for the bungalow-with-a-fan accommodations. Our bigger expense account led us to a VIP room on an isolated beach, where we had the very fine restaurant to ourselves.

A good time had by all!

Just What the Doctor Ordered

We had a few issues this week with the people who help Jip out. And the rainy season seems to have suddenly begun in earnest, so her legs are feeling stiffer than usual. And the pace picked up at my job. And I stayed up too late one night watching a movie that turned out not to be worth it. Long story short, Friday afternoon came and I was dragging.

Of course, some weeks are bound to go that way. That’s why the world has pubs, I suppose, and shopping malls, and karaoke.

What I did Friday evening to put the week behind me was walk ten minutes from the office to a nondescript storefront, where four matronly women wearing lab coats looked up as I pushed through the door. “Massage?” they asked. “Please,” I said. Soon I had changed into a pair of cotton pajamas and was lying on one of the dozen mattresses spread around the open room.

I had first heard about this place from a colleague at CDC. She had arrived ahead of me and was two mattresses away. “Make sure you tell them you want two hours,” she mumbled, before apparently slipping off to sleep.

The woman who worked on me had probably acquired her strong hands by harvesting rice in an upcountry village. She and her fellow lab coats laughed as they worked, gossiped about who was passing by outside, and commented on the action in a soap opera that was blaring from a TV.

Of course I have other massage options in Bangkok. At this place, clothing was not optional. It was free of candles and incense. The only decoration in the room was a set of Buddha images on the top shelf of a bookcase by the desk. But my cares wouldn’t have melted any faster in a fancier setting. The price, with a generous tip, came to under ten dollars.

Chiang Mai III

The last two times I went to the north, I was upfront about looking for a job. My approach during this sequel was less direct. I asked people at health-related organizations if they had considered teaming up with the CDC. I reasoned that if a small collaboration grew and took off, then they would have to hire me to manage it.

I know, I know, you’re thinking, “he’s dreaming WHAT?” I agree, the “information interview” strategy will take a long time to bear fruit, assuming it ever does. But I’m not in any hurry. Jip rarely talks about wanting to move to Chiang Mai anymore, having settled into her Bangkok schedule.

Also, salaries that would support caregivers and our other special needs are rare in Chiang Mai. I visited a former housemate of mine from the refugee camp days, who now lives there. She says she can afford a cool teak house and a new baby mostly because her husband works in Bangkok and commutes home on weekends.

Speaking of commuting, one potential collaborator I called on pointed out that considering Bangkok’s traffic jams, he could probably get to CDC faster by plane and cab from Chiang Mai than I get there via my daily combination of sky train, shared van, and motorcycle taxi.

So who knows where we’ll be living and working at this time next year? I’d still like to find a way to take advantage of Chiang Mai’s cooler weather, higher hills, and emptier roads. But if it takes us a while to pull it off, then as the Thais say, “mai pen rai” (never mind, don’t worry about it)!

Going Abroad

Shortly after walking across the border into Cambodia, I was approached by a man on a motorcycle who wondered if I wanted to visit the chicken farm. I must have given him a look that said, “Why on Earth?” because he elaborated: “You know, lay-dee!” First time I’d heard that term for that kind of place. I decided to pass up the offer.

Soon I found myself in a shared taxi, heading for the town where I planned to spend the night, about 50 kilometers inside the country. Nobody in this taxi was especially comfortable. There were eight of us inside, roughly 25 more in the back of the pickup, and one guy sitting on the hood. When road got bumpy, our “navigator” kept from being bounced off and into a ditch by holding on tighter to the windshield wiper.
Although it was my first time inside the country, Cambodia triggered lots of memories from our time in the refugee camp, which was sited minutes from the border. Certain smells transported me instantly: smoke from fires set by villagers in their fields, stagnant water, curry pastes in the markets. I also began to remember parts of the language that had long been buried. After a day or so I even started to figure out what people were talking about.

And I picked up right where I left off with a pair of American friends who had also worked in the camp. These two had followed the refugees back home when the camps closed in the early ‘90s. We spent our evenings having those endless conversations people have when they’ve hardly seen each other for twenty years. We didn’t manage to solve all of the world’s problems, but we did decide that most of the world’s politicians could have learned something from listening in on what we discussed.

(Billboard outside Mongkol Borei: The words on the sign say, "We no longer need weapons.")

On the Road Again

Speaking of going places, I took advantage of a couple quiet weeks at the office to slip away from Bangkok for two short trips. One was to Cambodia, my first time there, despite working on the border for nearly three years in the ‘80s. Completing that circle felt wonderful. The other journey was one more networking run to Chiang Mai.

Jip dealt with my absences quite well, I thought. When I called to check in, she didn’t ask, “When are you coming home?” as she might have done four or five months ago. Instead I heard about the latest meals (a new staple: yogurt made from goat’s milk), and about how her exercises were going.

But the day after I returned from Chiang Mai, a tantrum erupted suddenly, for no reason I could ever detect. And during the past few days she’s been more anxious than usual about what time I’ll return from work. So I’m hesitating before booking what I had hoped could be a few weeks’ trip to the States a few months from now. We’ll see.

Summer Palace

Chao and I had been biking near a house that he and some friends have rented, about an hour upriver, in the town of Bang Pa-In. It’s a great spot for weekend getaways: nothing to do except bicycle, or watch boats ferry people across, or fish off the balcony, or swim, or drink whiskey, or read in a hammock down below the house, or float in an inner tube, or catch freshwater shrimp, or walk down the street to a large royal estate with a long history.

The rental house ensemble of about 15 people is an eclectic mix of talents and backgrounds. I think I understood the conversation well enough to identify an architect, a public relations guy, a bar owner, and a couple of journalists. That’s what I could hear. What I could see were lots of tattoos, some spaghetti straps, a few very hip pairs of Elvis Costello glasses, and every variety of hair length, including an amazing set of dread locks that when un-turbaned hung down to the back of the guy’s knees.

They’re just now getting started on this adventure, but have signed up for a six-year deal, so amidst the snacking and sipping and listening to Sinatra, big plans were on the table: how to remodel, who has which rights, and so on. I’ll be interested to watch how this second residence influences Chao’s decision about whether to stay in Bangkok, or to move a few hours east, after he is married sometime later this year.

A few weeks earlier, as a tourist, I’d spent a pleasant Saturday strolling through the manicured grounds of the king’s Bang Pa-In palace. (I knew it was going to be a good trip when the hour-long train ride to get up there cost me 20 cents.) But my day at Chao’s palace was even nicer. Always go places with locals, is my motto.

Be Careful What You Wish For

After complaining about heat for much of this month, Saturday I found myself shivering. The weather was classic Seattle: endless gentle rain, along with fleece jacket temperatures. My hands even felt numb.

Of course, having water poured down my back during the annual Songkran festival didn’t help. Chao and I were bicycling on a back street, proud of ourselves for having avoided the mayhem of the main market, where a fire engine had been requisitioned to spray passersby.

But I still couldn’t escape my fate (perhaps I was very naughty with squirt guns in a past life?). As our bike ride was just 100 yards from its destination, an innocent-looking older man approached me, holding a silver bowl. As I pedaled past slowly, he soaked me with a gentle but thorough motion. The rain began not long afterward, before I could dry out.

Heating Up

Jip is having a pretty good summer. Before we moved here, we always assumed this time of year would be a problem. American doctors told us to avoid heat, saying it would likely make her worse. If anything, she has become stronger.

Recently she revived a set of trunk exercises that she hasn’t wanted to do since Seattle. She’s also been asking for the large “standing frame” that we left behind. It’s a device that allows her to get vertical and bear weight.

And while many people here manage this sticky weather by wearing as little as possible, Jip is still sporting long-sleeved shirts.

Meanwhile, I could use a good cool breeze off of Puget Sound about now. This month the sweat just pours off me. The worst is when I’ve been walking outdoors, then stop momentarily where the air is still, like at a covered market. Suddenly I sprout droplets. The Thais around me of course look like they just stepped out of a salon.

This month also makes me think I should take up a less physical sport—say, knitting. Evening soccer practice at the British Club is tolerable (though afterward, despite a shower, I still become a human waterfall while waiting for the SkyTrain).

But our weekly games on Saturday afternoons bring to mind the phrase “mad dogs and Englishmen.” During those full-sun contests, I definitely feel my age. So while Jip thrives in her native climate, I’m just trying to keep a respectable core body temperature. And changing my shirt three times a day.

Mango Plumpness

Some people tell me I’m looking skinny. I haven’t really noticed, but I believe them. Eating rice instead of pasta, and walking around in 100 degree heat, would do it to anyone. By the time May is over, though, I expect I’ll be back at my American weight. Why? It’s mango season.

In these parts, April is not only the peak month for outside temperature, but also for the world’s most consumed and number one selling fruit. And we’re not talking about that mushy, stringy, been-in-a-refrigerated-truck-for-the-last-three-weeks-since-it-was-plucked-too-early-off-the-tree-in-Mexico mango. Over here, the mango is as close as a fruit gets to being ice cream. You don’t even have to chew. It goes down that easy.

What’s more, the ripe mango in Thailand often gets served with a wicked accompaniment of sticky rice, coconut milk, sugar and salt. This combination has been known to add more spare tires to more foreigners’ middles than the all-you-can-eat cafeterias add pounds to unsuspecting freshmen during their first semester at college.

So fear not. At my current rate of one plate of “khao-niao-mamuang” per day, being skinny is the least of my worries. Here’s a recipe. To make it really authentic, toast up some sesame seeds and sprinkle those on top.

Just Say No to Stuff

If you’re looking for a way to clear out some clutter from wherever you live, I recommend moving abroad. We tossed and tossed.

Even now, nearly nine months since we arrived, the closets in our very airy apartment are nearly empty. Of course we could fill them up again. But having made several hard choices while purging in Seattle, I doubt we will.

For instance, I spent hours sorting through the filing cabinet, because I was sure that the one piece of paper we needed would be the one I discarded. Yet I have hardly touched what I kept.

And shoes—I recalled that quality shoes would be hard to find here. So I brought along several pair. Now I only wear two of them regularly. The other day I bought some fine flip flops (75 cents), which have become my favorites.

Any regrets? I’ve yet to see a big wok I like as well as the seasoned old friend that went byebye at our yard sale. But to replace that item, we’ve come to the right continent.

Buyin’ and Sellin’ in the ’hood; or, What the Neighbors Say – Part Three

Our soi is more residential than most, but it does have a restaurant or two along its length, as well as a failed nightclub and a thriving brothel. It’s only as I near the main drag that I begin to hear buses and jackhammers and other such city sounds. Otherwise, about the loudest noise we hear at home is the daily broadcast from loudspeakers of the national anthem, at 8am and 6pm.

The main street caters to foreigners of all stripes. Signs outside businesses are more likely to be written in English, Korean, or Japanese than in Thai. Within a ten-minute walk from home, I can find restaurants featuring at least two dozen cuisines. I could buy a new Volvo sedan or a Ford pickup. In the evenings, the sidewalks fill up with vendors hawking everything from fake Rolexes to silk shirts. Sometimes an elephant lumbers through the chaos, led by men selling what they claim is elephant food.

Generally my trips out to the road are for groceries or my own meals. I do the shopping at one of two supermarkets. The aisles in larger one would look familiar to most American shoppers—peanut butter, corn flakes, soy sauce—the main differences being brand names and a few categories that aren’t represented in the States. (Twenty feet of shelf space is devoted to “essence of chicken,” which comes in several flavors, including chocolate.)

That supermarket occupies the basement of a large department store. Next door is a five-star hotel. Across the road is the smaller supermarket, dominated by bargains and more everyday items (holy basil, whiskey, 10-kg. sacks of rice, fish sauce, that kind of thing). Throw in storefronts offering foot massages, lattes, prescription drugs (without a prescription!), and you kind of get the picture.

Buyin’ and Sellin’ in the ’hood; or, What the Neighbors Say – Part Two

All of this commerce happens in a lane that is too narrow for cars to pass each other. The fruit guy parks at a spot where others can get around him by swerving into a driveway. The lane has five driveways. Two lead into apartment buildings, while three are blocked by tall gates, announcing and gilding the fancy homes behind.

In our part of Bangkok these homes are likely to be owned by wealthy Indians. I imagine the music wafting through our windows from neighbors could just as easily be heard in Delhi or Mumbai. Kids playing soccer or lighting firecrackers in the courtyard of the apartment across the lane are speaking English with an accent from the subcontinent.

Weekday mornings, vans with uniformed drivers pick up kids from the lane and whisk them off to various private international schools. From our building, all the kids go to the Lycée Français International de Bangkok. Once they get home in the afternoon, we typically hear French spoken by the side of the pool.

The lane leads to a slightly wider street, known as a “soi,” where the buying and selling is still mostly outdoors, but more stationary. For instance, just beyond the corner are a stand selling curries, a man treadling a sewing machine, and a woman creating caffeine drinks of various colors and temperatures. All of these businesses disappear after dark. The food salespeople pack up their carts and roll them away, while the tailor covers his sewing machine with a tarp and chains it to a wall.

Buyin’ and Sellin’ in the ’hood; or, What the Neighbors Say – Part One

This may help picture where Jip and I live.

At 6am we hear a bicycle horn. It’s the scrap guy. He wants people to know he’s buying. If you’re selling, he’ll be back by in a few minutes. Formal recycling programs aren’t necessary here. One set of people look through the trash after dark, hoping for treasures; another set comes by during the day, offering a small sum for slightly higher-quality junk.

An hour later, the broom guy rides by. He too is on a bicycle, which like the scrap guy’s is specially fitted with accessories. More than fifty brooms, dustbins, and various other house wares stick up and lean out, flagpole style, from various slots in the broom guy’s rig. The net effect is of a moving brown jungle. From the middle of the jungle, the broom guy peers out, chants the names of his products, and attempts to steer. I assume there are accidents.

Later in the morning, and sometimes again before sundown, the fruit guy shows up. In our neighborhood the fruit guy is really two people. One drives the truck, narrating the menu and prices over a loudspeaker. The other sits in the back, surrounded by mounds of mangoes, oranges, guavas, pomelos, and whatever else is in season.