Live to Eat

A company that provides phone service at our office sent over a New Year’s gift of appreciation. We opened the huge container to find a selection of ice cream cones and popsicles, surrounded by dry ice.

Someone immediately filled a large bowl full of water, placed it on the floor in the middle of a busy hallway, and started playing (“doing experiments”) with the dry ice. Most everyone ignored the ice cream. A large crowd appeared to suggest new ideas for “research.” Yet another reminder that I work with scientists.

It also struck me again that generally Thais eat to get flavor, rather than simply to get full. In some countries, office workers looking for a late afternoon sugar hit would have devoured frozen treats, regardless of what they tasted like. In this case, because the brand name on the ice cream hinted that it wasn’t top of the line, the gifts were allowed to melt and then were tossed in the trash.

Nationwide Funeral

Although I’ve learned that I’m not invisible here, rarely do I feel like I stick out either. As my mother-in-law reported on the day after Jip and I were married, having checked on the gossip going around the village market, I am “not too tall, not too tattoo-covered, and not too hairy.”

But last night while riding the sky train I felt as uncomfortable as I can ever remember in Thailand. It was because I was wearing a blue shirt.

I knew of course that the king’s elder sister, Princess Galyani, had passed away a couple of days before. A Thai co-worker had thoughtfully called me that morning to mention that the country would be in mourning for a while, and that black and white attire would be expected at the office.

The transformation was immediate and complete. Everyone I saw on my way to work was dressed for a funeral. Walking into the cafeteria at the Ministry of Public Health was like watching a black and white movie. The whole country seemed to own several outfits for just such an occasion.

Not me. I ran out of appropriate clothes after three days. I hoped I wasn’t the only one, and that the rules might relax a little bit on the weekend, so before joining some people for a movie on Friday night, I went home and slipped into something blue.

I was the only one. The blue seats, and my shirt, were the lone spots of color on the sky train. Considering the respect people here have for the royal family, I thought maybe I should crawl under one of those blue seats and try to blend in with the furniture.

Mezzanine Seats

Jip and I are looking forward to a stable Year of the Rat. Our pleasures were pretty simple in the Year of the Pig. We rarely felt the old Chinese curse about interesting times. I’ve especially enjoyed opportunities to just reflect, or read, or get a massage, or be with friends—agenda-free, and without having to be home at any special time.

Jip would say something similar. She doesn’t care for packed schedules, loud noises, or too much newness all at once. So neither of us was inclined to stay up late on New Year’s Eve, and when three text messages beeped on my phone right after midnight, we weren’t thrilled to be awake.

But I got up anyway, curious about some flashing lights outside. From the balcony I could see fireworks in the distance. When I turned my head in a different direction, I saw another display exploding. Pretty soon I realized that we were surrounded. From my high vantage point I counted at least nine different fireworks celebrations happening in and around the city. All were easy to see, but too far away to hear. A good sign for a beautiful, quiet year to come.

Gifting

Christmas happened on a canal boat at dusk in a little-visited province about three hours north of Bangkok.

As the boat putted along an irrigation waterway, slightly wider than a two-lane road, we passed men wading neck deep as they repaired their shrimp net contraptions, mothers and children bathing, birds fishing, and godknowswhatelse that was right under my nose but that I couldn’t see because it was so far outside my experience.

Viewed through my citified eyes, the evening was perfect. We were in the countryside, at sunset, eating an excellent meal on a channel that to me could have been cut through the Garden of Eden. Every sight, sound, and smell was new. The boat turned around and we savored it all again in near pitch darkness, navigating with the help of a guy on the bow with a flashlight.

Why this trip on this day in this place? Our office had the day off for Christmas. A guy from work and I decided to visit a friend of his whose job in the States would probably be called “county official.” The position allows him to pull in a few favors now and then.

So when we came calling, he had one of his underlings arrange this little excursion. Three or four people none of us knew came along for the ride, perhaps friends of the boatman. The tab was picked up by somebody we didn’t meet until we got back on land. I didn’t understand what was in it for whom, other than to recognize a you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours arrangement.

The rules of the arrangement got even murkier when the underling then escorted the two of us from the dock to a slightly larger provincial capital. There, the vice governor (also a friend of my friend) set up rooms at the nicest hotel in town and elephant rides the next day, all gratis.

I assume that the next time the hotelier and the elephant owner need a permit, they’ll be reminding the vice governor about “those guys from Bangkok who passed through around the end of last year.” Yet the relationships didn’t seem sleazy or entirely dishonest either. I decided it was best to simply mark it down as a Thai kind of gift giving.

Checking the Box

The other night I attended a fundraiser for Hillary. A couple of friends had talked me into it, hinting that the casual gathering, at a private home in an exclusive part of Bangkok, might be graced by a phone call from Hillary’s husband.

I’m generally not too big on cocktail parties, and I’d never been to a political event where I was tapped for money before. It was funny to me that my initiation to this American institution would take place outside the States.

About 25 people showed up, some seriously into politics, others there for the food. Few were committed to the candidate, which was fine with me. I’d probably be satisfied with any of the Democrats.

I enjoyed the mingling more than I liked talking about the election, which in my mind is still way too far off to be stimulating. Bill didn’t ring, but we did have a speakerphone conversation with Madeline Albright.

So I’ve checked another box on the list of life experiences. Along with eating shark fin soup and riding an elephant, it’s one of those rites of passage I can say I’ve done and therefore don’t have to make a habit of.

Election Season

You can’t pass a telephone pole here this week without seeing a campaign poster. The first-since-the-coup election of new parliament members happens Sunday. If any party gets a majority, it will form the new government. Otherwise, lots of horse trading will determine who gets control of which ministry, including the prime ministry.

Unless of course the current military rulers don’t like the outcome, in which case they’ll either invent a reason for staying in power a bit longer, or swallow their pride and admit that the coup didn’t accomplish what they hoped it would.

Even though I don’t really understand most of what’s going on, this election intrigues me more than the American one. It’s short-lived, for one thing. Candidates in the States have been debating for months, and still have nearly a year to go. Who can sustain excitement that long? Here, the election date wasn’t even decided until mid-October.

Also, the posters are cool. My favorite features a serious looking woman dressed in her university graduation robe, above the caption, “Not Crazy!” Then there’s the Artist Party, whose slogan is “No governing principle is best.”

I was amused to learn that if any of the election winners turn out to be suspected of vote fraud, they’ll receive yellow or red cards, just like in soccer. Either color forces a do-over; red means the candidate is disqualified. So much simpler than asking the Supreme Court to step in or examining hanging chads!

Sitcom in the Village

Maybe this next tale is one of those had-to-be-there moments, I’m not sure. Anyway, I turned it over in my head several times afterwards, grinning each time, so here goes.

Jip’s 97-year-old grandma for years has complained of symptoms that in Thailand are lumped under the term “wind illness.” This generic malady is thought to be related to weather in indirect ways, or perhaps to a lack of balance among wind, water, earth, and fire. Beyond that its causes and cures are the subject of much debate.

When Jip did health research among Cambodian women in Seattle, she found them mentioning it frequently, often when discussing their older female relatives. She even wrote up a short article about wind illness in a medical journal, in order to help Western doctors understand the phenomenon in their Asian patients.

Her expertise came in handy when we traveled to Jip’s village last weekend for what has become our annual pilgrimage. We spent two nights. Jip and Grandma were both in great form, laughing easily, enjoying being together. On the second morning, they both woke up around the same time.

Jip complained of stiff legs. I had just started to help her move them, when from the other room came the sound of Grandma moaning in a way that Jip has apparently been used to since forever. Jip’s mom usually deals with the wind illness attacks, but she was at the market. (Jip knew this without having to ask. Mom never misses the Monday morning market.)

So I was dispatched to massage Grandma and to fix her a dose of “bpaaeng cha na lohm,” a special powder to combat wind illness sold by guys along the roadside. Never mind that I had never touched Grandma in my life. Never mind that she was under a mosquito net, which made it hard for her to see whose hands were reaching for her. Never mind that she’s about 90% deaf, so even if my Thai had been perfect she wouldn’t have gotten much of it.

Jip wasn’t helping matters. She thought the whole situation was hysterical. Which I suppose it was. Between Jip shouting barely intelligible instructions from the other room, and Grandma making sick elephant noises, and my trying to convince Grandma that I knew how much powder to mix into how much water, the scene was made for situation comedy. Or maybe you had to be there.

Face Mask

A few weeks back, one of the caregivers slept on our extra bed instead of going home after her shift. She didn’t ask first, and she seemed to be avoiding me.

I left before she got up the next morning, and the next evening the same thing happened. When I asked the others if everything was OK, they smirked a little, and muttered that she had a headache. No further details.

So I hadn’t seen her face for nearly two days when we finally crossed paths in the kitchen on the second morning. Initially she wouldn’t meet my gaze. When she finally looked up, I saw why. Two of the biggest, darkest black eyes I’d ever seen. Oh, my, I thought. Domestic abuse. She’s afraid to go home. This is going to be tricky.

My first thought was to wonder how this episode was affecting Jip. Surely the caregiver had lots more on her mind than caregiving. But she didn’t seem upset or agitated, and Jip hadn’t said anything about feeling neglected.

I asked how she was doing. She said, “it’s healing fine.” I’m sure it is, I said, but how are things at home? Then it was her turn to be confused. Home? What does home have to do with getting cosmetic surgery done on my nose?

The dark bruises are now completely gone. To be honest I don’t see much difference in her appearance. But she’s very happy with the results, and I’m sure would be glad to pass along the name of her doctor in case you’re interested.

As Good As It Gets

Three perfect days in Cambodia confirmed the reaction I had to Angkor Wat last November—that I could return there every year for the rest of my life. Vinnie, his wife Tina, and I poked around the ruins, ate great, then ran a road race at almost the pace we’d planned beforehand. The cool weather was the icing on the cake.

The temples I’d seen before seemed just as inspiring as the first time. The ones that were new to me quickly became my favorites. We hired a tuk-tuk driver and followed a route that mostly kept us ahead of the crowds, while still leaving plenty of spots unseen for future trips.

Our guest house worked out wonderfully too. The owner got intrigued by the half marathon. He hadn’t had guests run it before, and he enjoys photography. So he offered to drive us out to the race with his camera. Now we’re famous! Check out our pictures online, and check in with Dave next time you pass through Siem Reap:

http://www.peaceofasia.com/Angkormararathon.htm

Thanksgiving with Jip

Jip and I had a memorable Thanksgiving. She started the day by asking for yams with rosemary. They’re not usually on her list, and so hunting them down in the market took a while. When I got back, the caregiver told me that she and Jip had been discussing where Jip and I should go for a walk after the feast.

I couldn’t believe my ears. Jip never goes for a walk. She has left this apartment fewer than ten times this year. But they had decided that Jip and I would be leaving for Railroad Park at around 4 in the afternoon.

It was cool for Bangkok (70s, breezy, think Hawaii weather), and the park wasn’t crowded because nobody else besides a few Americans had the day off. Now and then an old man would shuffle past us, jogging just a little faster than Jip’s wheelchair was rolling.

At first Jip asked me about certain sounds, but eventually she got quiet and I realized she was in that mode so familiar on Thanksgiving: eyes closed, half asleep, digesting. Lots to be thankful for here.

Thanksgiving with CDC

At work we held a “taste of Thanksgiving” on the day before. Lots of Thais said they’d been with CDC for several years, but had never understood the holiday. The main idea of our mini celebration was to share the traditions. We sat in a circle while a handful of Americans told what remembered from growing up with Thanksgiving.

The common themes were the three F’s: family, food, and football. Some people said it was their favorite American holiday because it wasn’t tied to presents or religion. At the end, everybody had a chance to mention something they were grateful for.

We didn’t do a potluck. The traditional foods are tricky to find in Bangkok, so we decided not to pressure anyone into bringing something that wasn’t just right. Instead, experienced volunteers showed up with just enough turkey and stuffing, cranberries, and pumpkin pie for first-timers to get a sense.

It was a nice cross-cultural event. Nobody had to travel through busy airports to get there, and nobody fell asleep on the couch after what was really just a mid-afternoon snack.

International Friendly

What started as small soccer contests after work grew into an invitation to play in Laos. A few dozen of us had competed against each other locally in a round robin tournament among parts of the U.S. embassy community. Last weekend we combined forces to challenge our counterparts in Vientiane. I was one of three to make the trip from CDC.

The gung-ho hosts at the embassy in Laos had thought of everything. We were met on the Thai side of the bridge by a caravan of vehicles with bulletproof windows. Though the vans had just come from the Lao side minutes before, a crew sprayed the hubcaps with disinfectant as we came into the country. (No telling what strains of bird flu and other pandemics-to-be might be lurking in Thailand.)

Soon we were lunching with the ambassador, a pleasant and athletic 50-something. He revealed no secrets about his team’s strategy for the match that afternoon. Later, we wished we’d had better intelligence. Though badly outnumbered on the bench, they forced a tie after 90 minutes of regulation.

The senior diplomats from each side conferred. A growing crowd roared for more: cheerleaders, family members, and people who had heard there would be a party afterwards. The decision was made to play another 15 minutes. When that overtime period ended with the score still 2-2, another one was added.

Each team wangled one more goal. Having played for two hours, a draw seemed more appropriate than it had seemed thirty minutes earlier. Besides, the buffaloes were done roasting. Handshakes were exchanged. All agreed that the cause of international relations had been advanced.

(A bit more detail about this junket appears at hipbelt, a sister blog where travel tales get told.)

Benja Ped

Sobs from Jip’s night-time caregiver woke me in the wee hours. She’d just received a call telling her that her brother had been in a motorcycle accident. I agreed that she should go to the hospital to be of help, while I took over her shift.

The next time we saw her, she had a bump on her forehead. She explained that she had unintentionally collided with a farming tool that her father had been carrying. Later we heard that her mother had been slow to recover from an illness.

I expressed my sympathy for all the bad luck that had seemed to pile up in her life. “Oh, it’s because I’m 25,” she said casually, as if that clarified everything. Jip filled me in. It appears that many Thais believe in what’s known as “benja ped,” an old tradition that suggests one’s 25^th year will be a rough one.

It’s a coming-of-age idea. Historically, adult responsibilities kicked in around then. Today, people sometimes choose to be extra careful, or to make extra merit, during this time of transition. I took an informal poll at the office. Roughly half of those I asked had a memory to share from when they were benja ped (the words mean “25” in Pali, an ancient language from which Thai borrows heavily). The others dismissed it as an outdated folk custom.

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.