Ya, Waew, and Jieb called me by speaker phone this morning, while I was at work. These are the women who took care of
Our conversation delighted me, and not just because I could report to them that
Hearing from them confirmed what I know but sometimes forget—that we’re pretty fun people to work for. People miss us after they’ve moved on.
I had a bit of business in the town where
Before I could even voice my invitation, he said, “Dude, how you getting to the reunion this afternoon? You’re welcome to drive along with us.”
Turned out that the former chief of the UN unit that oversaw the refugee camps was briefly back in Bangkok, and for only the second time ever, a get-together of old border hands had hastily been planned. Word hadn’t reached me, but the gods must have meant me to attend, considering the coincidence.
Although not many faces were familiar, striking up conversations was easy. The degrees of separation among people associated with the UN Border Relief Operation, as it was known, are generally three or less. Names and acronyms and exaggerations flowed freely.
We used to joke with each other in those days that we were “ruined for life.” In other words, having been touched by the refugees and their stories, we couldn’t look at our own lives and countries the same way again. We meant the phrase as a positive thing.
Indeed, nearly everyone I spoke with at the reunion had sought further ways to ruin themselves. Among the non-Thai at the event, many had continued to live and work in SE Asia after the camps closed, rather than return to
During Labor Day Weekend I spun up to Read all the details of this quick excursion at hipbelt, holybasil’s sister site devoted just to travel.
Just when I think I’m caught up on major aspects of Thai culture that differ from my own, something comes along, slaps me across the face, and says “Duh! You mean nobody ever told you that…?”
This week I was riding in a colleague’s car, talking about car insurance. She mentioned that she’d had several fender benders, and was concerned that soon she would have to change insurance companies. “Or maybe just change cars … this one isn’t tuuk chalok.”
I asked what the phrase meant. Instead of explaining it directly, she pointed to a hand-written sign in the back window of the car ahead of us. Traffic was barely moving (in other words, a normal day in
But the car wasn’t red, it was black. My friend explained that probably the owner had come to believe that the color of the car wasn’t a good fit (tuuk chalok), perhaps because of a string of bad luck similar to hers. Rather than re-paint the car, or replace it with a new one, this owner had decided to publicly claim (or perhaps announce to the car’s spirit? I wasn’t sure) that the car’s true color was not what it appeared.
I love this notion that people can changes their destinies through a declaration. It challenges the reputation some Asians have among Westerners for unquestioningly accepting fate. Thai people often change their names from one that is not tuuk chalok, usually in consultation with a respected monk.
Not long ago a group of us went to a restaurant where the front door faced west. That direction (sunsets, finality, death, and so on) is considered inauspicious by some people in
Beginning a slow jog the other night, I waved to the security guard. Our exchange followed the usual script:
He: How many minutes tonight?
Me: Oh, I’ll probably go for about ___ minutes (I make my best guess)
He: OK, I’m timing you!
Me: Ha, ha, ha.
I reached the end of the block and rain started to sprinkle lightly. When the lightning began a few minutes later, I wondered if I should turn around sooner than I’d expected. But I welcomed the break from muggy weather, so I kept going. (On typical days, considering
Before long the downpour was in full force. Puddles merged to become small streams. Heading into the wind, I had trouble keeping my eyes open.
I turned into a long side street and had the road to myself. Drivers were deciding to wait it out. Running to the end of the street and back took about five minutes. Nobody else seemed to be about.
My shoes were heavy with water, but it didn’t make any sense to take them off. My shirt, on the other hand, seemed unnecessary. I hung it on a tree and began another lap. It was tempting to bare all, as it was dark and I was practically naked anyway.
Seven laps later, I had transformed into a world class runner. My pace under those inspiring conditions had gotten so fast that I was sure my watch had stopped when I checked my times under the streetlights at the end of the block. Best of all, I felt I could go forever.
The guard couldn’t believe it when I finally returned home, having been away about twice as long (and maybe three times as far) as I’d predicted. Another reason why the rainy season is becoming my favorite.
Took a trip this past weekend to a place, Kanchanaburi, I’d remembered fondly from twenty years past. Read all about it on holybasil’s sister site devoted only to travel, hipbelt.
About once a month I get a massage at one of the various storefronts in our neighborhood that offer several different menu items: foot, whole body, head only, with oil, with herbs, and so on. These places are all above board, but the routines, decor, and prices vary widely.
They also come and go—I suspect that not many of the proprietors have had business training. This turnover rate means that I’m always continuing the quest for the perfect massage. I know that there is no such thing. I also know that I’ll never run out of possibilities.
This week I tried a new spot, located on a lower floor in an apartment building that rents to people of several nationalities. About half the time my masseuse turns out to be a man, but this time I wasn’t really sure at first. Trying not to stare, I kept sneaking glances, but s/he wasn’t giving me any clues. Loose clothing, unisex haircut, never said a word. I wasn’t even clear about whether or not s/he was Thai.
Eventually the kneading and pressing that characterizes massage here began to get closer to some classified areas. For my peace of mind, I sort of wanted to know a little more about who I was dealing with. I reasoned that perhaps the rules at this establishment were different from what I was used to.
I cleared my throat and tried to communicate in Thai an idea something like, “Go easy—that place on my upper thigh is a little tender.” In fact the pressure wasn’t too bad. I simply hoped that s/he would answer, so I could tell if this was a soprano or a baritone. “Why? Did you get injured there?” he said in a deep voice.
Ah. Relaxation came easily after I had a gender to assign to my masseuse. He did a pretty good job, despite a few failed attempts to bend my body into a pretzel shape. (This guy was athletic, and I think he wanted to show off his own flexibility, without perhaps stopping to assess my own lack of it.) His appearance might be a fashion statement that I would be able to interpret more easily if I was still in my twenties.
Afterward I went to the front desk to pay up. Normally I like to hand a tip directly to the person who worked on me, so that I’m sure it reaches them. I waited for a few minutes, but my guy was nowhere to be seen. As I was putting on my shoes, an angry-looking woman customer stormed into the room from the place in the back where the massages happen. She was wearing a head scarf of the kind seen in moderate Islamic countries.
In English she said to the boss, “Give me phone.”
The boss smiled but looked surprised. “Is everything OK?”
“Give me phone. I want talk my son.”
Soon she was shouting into the phone, “They give me man. I come here get massage. I no want man. They trick me. He not speak. They think I not know. But I know! (Pause.) How I know? I no need check. You not believe? You check! You come downstairs check!”
As I left the building I saw a young man trudge out of the elevator and head for the shop. Something told me that nobody in there was going to be able to relax for a while.
Here’s how not to study Thai language:
Carry around a pack of flashcards you made over a dozen years ago, pull them out once a day while riding the bus, quiz yourself, reward yourself for correct answers by retiring that card from the pack.
I’d been relying solely on this method of language study for about a year, when a Thai friend at work said (with unusual directness for this country), “Considering the number of opportunities you’ve had to get good at it, your Thai is really quite poor!” The truth stings.
Last year I studied with a tutor whose style I liked because, despite learning from him for over three months, I never knew whether or not he could speak English. He had a knack for being able to explain in Thai nearly anything we wanted to talk about, using a vocabulary that I could follow. It was as if he knew exactly which words I already knew.
Then
Last week I got a new teacher. During our three-times-weekly lessons, she supplies the English word if I ask her for it, but otherwise we only speak in
the name of Luang Phor Tuad. We turned into the main entrance to this shrine, passing parking lots devoted solely to tour buses, and came face to face with maybe the largest statue of a real human being I’d ever come across. (Think of Lenin in
Naturally I got curious what all the fuss was about, and how this destination temple came to be built where it is (the monk himself hailed from a province nearly 1,000 kilometers further south) and at this moment in history.
Chao and
Recently a particular style of amulet known as Jatukham took this country by storm. At one point sales reportedly accounted for about one percent of the gross domestic product. The beliefs surrounding them seem to have more to do with the supernatural than with Buddhism (although those two ways of life are often intertwined here). They’re also linked in some way that I don’t completely follow to a 100-plus-year-old policeman who died earlier in the year.
Folks sports these pocket watch-sized medallions, hung outside clothing from specially designed necklaces, in the belief that they’ll be protected from car crashes or similar mishaps. Jatukham seemed especially plentiful in the south, compared to
Chao has written about them for his newspaper, and seems also to be interested in their investment potential. Wat Huay Mongkhol is apparently an epicenter for their manufacture and trade. No doubt there’s much more to the craze than is dreamt of in my philosophy.
When the subject first came up,
At that point, a change in plans would have been possible but tricky. We’d have needed to find a van, waited half a day for her to finish her bathroom and shower routine, organized her food, and packed a really big bag of stuff.
I knew she wasn’t completely serious about wanting to take the trip. Yet I still felt terrible leaving her behind on a journey that was about family and her dad. In fact I felt a bit like her dad when I told her, “next time.”
When we returned to
On the way south we stopped at a former royal retreat, built three kings ago, known as the
The three of us rode bicycles along shaded paths, and explored a boardwalk built through a mangrove swamp that the princess herself helped plant. I learned that this essential shellfish habitat used to be much more plentiful along tropical coastlines that it is now.
I also learned that the name of
In an odd way it also felt like my home. I couldn’t walk a hundred yards without being invited in for a chat.
Ban Krud is a lovely place to be from. The ancient trees along the road near the railroad station are as welcoming an entrance as can be found anywhere. They’re also full of brilliant birds—no wonder
Jip managed fine in my absence, all things considered. She was grouchy for about a day. Then she figured out that without me around, she could push the envelope on a few obsessions that she knows I don’t approve of. I suspect the caregivers spoiled her by letting her brush her teeth for as long as she liked, and by putting up with an endless clothes selection routine every time. With that kind of pampering, what’s not to like about having your husband out of the country?
Lately she acts like a rebellious teenager. She tells people what she thinks, stays up past midnight, demands that her parent (more and more my role) stays out of her business. I have to hand it to her—the strategies she uses to stay in control of her life are remarkably inventive. I often wish that creativity could be channeled into other pursuits as well.
Like what? People often ask whether she would enjoy listening to books or monks on tape. A few years back, when she first dealt with low vision, she used to spend a couple hours a day with recordings, or listening to people read aloud. Now her attention span for that kind of thing is limited to about five minutes. Occasionally she’ll agree to let me share some of the email messages and letters I’ve received; rarely, she’ll ask to answer one
Her vocation remains exercise, which she does between 5 and 8 every afternoon, rain or shine. She also averages three hours daily on oral health care, which I suppose makes it her avocation.
When I taught school I used to always observe my feelings carefully during the first few days after returning from a long break. I figured that if I wasn’t happy to be with my students after relaxing with friends and family, then perhaps I should consider a change (new grade, new school, new career?) during the following school year.
That system worked well as a gauge for how much I was enjoying my current setting. By that measure, I’m in a very good place at the moment. Coming back to
I’m not taking anything away from the
It’s just that it feels great to be back in the Big Mango. People are smiling and sauntering. Dogs are lying on the sidewalk. In my head is a list of dishes I want to order at my favorite eating spots.
