Stand-alone Sleeves

In Chicago when I was growing up, we stashed seasonal clothes at the back of the coat closet. That’s where we’d look for mittens, scarves, ski masks, and a circle of wool known as a head band that was mainly designed to keep our ears warm on snowy days.

This month Thai people begin rummaging around for their equivalent of winter garments to handle temperatures that get down as low as 70° F. on the chilliest days. I haven’t seen any mittens or head bands, but several pairs of stand-alone sleeves have appeared. These are designed to supplement a short-sleeved shirt. Slipped on over the wrist, forearm, and elbow, they’re apparently a compromise between wearing a jacket and shivering in the cool season.

No Trace

We’ve all gone back to visit a place years later and said, “Whoa! I can’t believe how much they’ve built this up since the last time I was here … and nobody asked my permission.” Much rarer are the visits when we’ve said, “Whoa! Where did everything go?”

Some friends and I had that kind of experience last weekend, returning to the site of the refugee camp where Jip and I used to work back in the ’80s. I wasn’t expecting to find much—somebody had told me that the formerly huge Cambodian city (at that time it was the second-largest concentration of Khmer on the planet, after Phnom Penh) had become mostly rice fields. But even being prepared to find nothing familiar, we were shocked at the emptiness.

Back then the land held nearly a quarter million people. Today there’s a just a small settlement under the patronage of the king’s youngest daughter—sort of a planned community, with roads, electricity, and water all subsidized. Buffaloes there probably outnumber villagers.

About 95% of the land that I remember as being packed shoulder to shoulder with refugees is now filled with rice, taro, or papaya. No trace of foundations for hospitals, or pieces of leftover blue plastic, or signs that a rice distribution took place, or anything that would let a first-time visitor know how much life had once been lived there.

Reverse Birthday

Jip says she doesn’t care about her birthday and doesn’t like anybody eating cake on her behalf. Instead of receiving presents, she wanted to give a gift this year. She chose a donation to the Home for Disabled Children.

Retreat Month

Courtesy of the U.S. taxpayer I stayed at two fancy resort hotels in the past four weeks. We got lots of work done, but we also had time to play and explore the grounds.

At the first spot, the architecture and the food were Thai, but scratch the surface a little bit and it might have been located anyplace in the world where Westerners enjoy beaches. English was the lingua franca. The behavior code was American. A high-intensity water slide towered above the pool.

The second resort was also by the Gulf of Thailand, but nobody seemed to be going into it. In fact it was hard for me to figure out what the guests were into, because they were mostly speaking Russian, German, or Korean. They hung out, nearly nude, in the lobby.

At the buffet, besides rice and curries, we found goulash and sauerkraut. In the rooms, the cable channels included Deutscher Bundestag and Al Jazeera, as well as broadcasts from Moscow and Malaysia. Signs were sometimes in Russian, sometimes in Thai, but rarely both.

Down the beach was another curiosity: a huge wooden temple known as the Sanctuary of Truth, which I gather was built around 30 years ago by an eccentric Thai billionaire to celebrate the religions of the world. Seems like he chose the right neighborhood for it.

(Not to Mention That It’s a Pretty Good Meditation Technique)

Last night I ran the annual midnight run. The UN Day 10K is coming up in a couple weeks. I know both courses from having raced them a year ago. They’re motivating me keep up my routine and join the half marathon at Angkor Wat in early December. As if I needed more reasons to return to the Cambodian ruins, my childhood buddy Vinnie plans to fly in from Eugene for the event. This schedule could be habit forming.

Groundhog Day

I read recently that American soldiers use the phrase “Groundhog Day” to describe their time in Iraq, in reference to the Bill Murray movie about cyclical and disagreeable circumstances.

Chicago Cubs fans (Bill Murray included) also have a legitimate claim to the phrase. Yesterday marks the 99^th season in a row to end without a baseball crown.

Nobody is shocked, we’ve come to expect it. A friend of mine wrote to say that “it’s all part of the master plan.” Yet I still found myself wanting to tune in to the playoff games, just in case.

In this time zone the games take place at the beginning of the day, while I’m at work. My plan, to stay reasonably productive, was to check a website periodically for score updates. But I soon succumbed to the live radio broadcast over the Internet. My rationalization was that I was less distracted by a continuous feed than by the wondering.

Alas, I needn’t have wondered. Maybe next year? An even 100 years?

There’s never a wish better than this.

Burma Blues

Burma, Thailand’s neighbor to the west, had a mixed week last week. Details about the “saffron revolution” are widely available. Look over this respected local source of Burma news, as well as coverage by the BBC, and The Economist.

The story is worth following and responding to. This century, unlike the last one, isn’t America’s. New superpowers are rising, and it’s instructive to watch how those countries will handle bullies like the ones currently in charge of Burma.

It doesn’t hurt to offer a few suggestions to the regional powers. Check out this petition, among many others making the rounds.

Thailand’s response to this past week’s events is also important. Historically, the leadership here has been reluctant to criticize a major business partner (nearly half of Burma’s exports end up in Thailand). But goods aren’t the only things that find their way across the border. Untreated diseases, drugs, and hundreds of thousands of migrants and refugees give the Thai government countless reasons to get more involved in its neighbor’s business than it has in the past.

Boe Grows Up Down Under

Jip’s niece Boe, whom I’ve known since she was hardly half my height, graduated from college last year. Since then she’s been stuck in a job as a clerk at a Bangkok shipping company.

A few weeks ago she got herself a special visa to New Zealand, known as the working holiday visa. It’s designed for twenty-somethings, to help them enter a country they might not normally be able to visit easily, with the idea that they’ll spend a year doing two or three short working stints, interspersed with travel. I think it’s perfect for her.

Her parents and grandma probably feel a little more hesitant than I do, seeing as she is an only child and an only grandchild. She’s left Thailand only once before, a quick trip to Korea.

The first few email messages from her sound upbeat. After two weeks with the Kiwis, she seems to be enjoying the adjustment. She misses Thai food, but otherwise she’s not homesick. If anyone knows somebody there Boe could share housing with some day—empty nesters with a spare room, or a young single—drop me a line.

Blast from the Past #2

Ya, Waew, and Jieb called me by speaker phone this morning, while I was at work. These are the women who took care of Jip the longest since our arrival in Bangkok. They’d gotten together on a rare simultaneous day off from their new jobs.

Our conversation delighted me, and not just because I could report to them that Jip’s routines have been pretty stable for several weeks now. I was pleased that they had wanted to check in at all. Their only reason for calling was to ask how we are doing, what’s new at our apartment, and so on.

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.

Blast from the Past

I had a bit of business in the town where Jip and I met way back when. It wasn’t urgent, but I enjoy any excuse to revisit the Cambodian border. I phoned a guy I’ve talked to maybe three times in the last 20 years, just to see if he wanted to make a day trip with me. He also worked there then, and I know he shares my nostalgic tendencies.

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.” Reunion?

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 Europe or the States or wherever. It seemed that none of us were strangers, even if we’d never met before.

Wat Phra Buddha Bat

During Labor Day Weekend I spun up to Saraburi Province, about two hours north of Bangkok, to check out one of Thailand’s oldest and most important temples. I expected to find tradition, housed amidst crumbling walls. Instead, the place brims with young energy, and it gleams. How hip is it? The temple’s website address is featured on the entrance sign.

Read all the details of this quick excursion at hipbelt, holybasil’s sister site devoted just to travel.

Tuuk Chalok

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 Bangkok), and I had time to pick out the words, “This car is red.”

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 Thailand. But no worries—above our table was a sign announcing that “this restaurant faces east.”

Better Than Blood Doping

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 Bangkok’s sooty air, I’ve even thought that running in this city might be doing my body more harm than good.)

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.

Been There Done That

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.