“Glass Shadow” and “Stairs Monkey”

Studying a new language is especially fun when it leads to seeing an old idea in a fresh way. Two examples:

Just as in English, the word for “glass” in Thai can mean both something to put in a window and something to see your reflection in.

But what if you want to distinguish a pane from a mirror? In English you might insert the adjective, “looking.” In Thai you tack on the word, “shadow.” If you say that you need a “glass shadow” in order to shave your whiskers, everyone will know which kind of glass you mean.

Likewise, distinguishing “stairs” from “ladder” (the same word) in Thai is easy. To be certain everybody knows you’re talking about the latter, add “monkey.”

How Does Your Garden Grow?

In our pretty-good garden on the balcony is an accidental papaya tree. Probably it started as a seed that blew in on the wind. Everything seems to sprout here, no matter how much care (or neglect) you put into the project.

The Thai way is to grow plants in pots rather than beds. Even the huge permanent displays in front of public buildings really consist of hundreds of separate plants, each in its own pot. I read somewhere that people do this so they can move plants easily to higher ground when floods come.

Despite the wet and the heat, killing plants here seems harder than keeping them alive. Whenever we’ve had plants that look close to death, I’ve revived them by giving them a severe haircut and popping them into a new pot. In no time they’re thriving again.

The next step in my Thai gardening education will be figuring out which plants are pleasing to which spirits. I gather that certain species are thought to bring good luck, or to combine well with others to protect us from harm. If I ever re-arrange the pots on the balcony, I notice that the caregivers put them all back again the next day. Once or twice a new flower I’ve brought home has simply disappeared without a word. Time will tell if the papaya gets tossed out before it bears fruit.

Khao Sam Roi Yod National Park

A couple weeks ago, as Jip and I were coming back from a nice visit to Jip’s mom and grandma, I re-noticed some silhouetted mountains jutting up between the main road and the sea. Jip told me that the range and the national park surrounding it are known as “Three Hundred Peaks.” When I mentioned the place in Bangkok, I found that it’s well known among birders.

So I went back there on a scouting mission this past weekend, looking for spots where Jip and I could check off a few species. (Jip can identify most local birds by ear.) I arrived at the park entrance by bicycle and explained my quest to the rangers. They were excited to help. After asking about her wheelchair and her vision, they recommended a marsh with a boardwalk built out into it. They said it’s not far off the highway and attracts a mix of shore and inland birds.

I look forward to detouring there some day when we’re back in the neighborhood. This weekend, the boardwalk was too far to bike to. Instead, the rangers steered me to a beach they said I might enjoy for the trail that climbs to a well-known cave. From photos they showed me, I wasn’t too impressed, but I didn’t have any better ideas.

A map at the trailhead starred the standard nature-trail attractions: 1) big tree, 2) interesting orchid species, 3) spectacled langur… Wait. How could the mapmakers be confident enough of where this monkey-like creature would be sitting that they could mark its location with a star? Sure enough, when I got to number 3 on the trail, I looked up to see several pairs of little sunglasses staring down at me. No sign of a chain or rope keeping the critters there. No trash cans or similar buffet on offer. Must simply be a favorite hangout.

Phraya Nakhon Cave surprised me too. The pictures showed what seemed to be a small temple framed by a shallow depression in a cliff face. It’s common in Thailand to turn caves into Buddhist shrines.

Instead I found a huge goldfish-bowl-shaped sinkhole, more like a stadium than a cave. Because it’s open at the top, letting in a few hours of light every day, plants thrive there. Plus you’ve got your stalactites and stalagmites and echoes and… of course… a tasteful pavilion built in honor of the visit paid there over a hundred years ago by King Chulalongkorn. Naturally.

Catch Your Breath

I had just arrived home after work when a neighbor called. She had planned to visit us that evening, but wanted to ask, “Do you need a few minutes to catch your breath first?”

I didn’t. Her question made me realize that in this country I almost never do. We live in an unhurried place.

Jip's Bookshelf

Jip and I got back yesterday from visiting her village. While we were there her mom asked me to go through some of Jip’s old books. Anything we didn’t want to keep she planned to give away to the local high school.

What a wonderful reminder of who Jip used to be! I found lots of stuff about Buddhism on those shelves, but also Growing Up Catholic; The Tao of Pooh; Rumi, Poet and Mystic; Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind; The Power of Myth; A Christmas Carol; and even Waterbuffalo Theology.

Then came the anthropologist section—Cry the Beloved Country, Roots, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Gandhi: An Autobiography, Cathedrals and Abbeys of France, and Peoples of the Golden Triangle. I recognized the rebel nurse in titles like Blood and Guts and Our Bodies Our Selves, which sat next to The Manual of Gynecologic and Obstetric Emergencies. And of course the conservationist shelf—Rachel Carson, lots of writings by and about American Indians, and The Complete Birder.

My throat caught when I came across A Sand County Almanac. That book was very important to me in my 20s. Everything looked different to me after reading it. I remember preparing to lie down in front of bulldozers to prevent any further destruction of the American wilderness.

I had wondered what happened to my copy. Probably I brought it with me when I first came to Thailand, then passed it along to Jip, thinking it would speak to her too. Re-reading it now, I confess to feeling a little discouraged, wondering if our species is going to make it. But I do smile thinking of how a book inspired by a Wisconsin farm came to be part of a fascinating Thai-English library in a southern Thai village.

Designated Elder

Chinese New Year is a big deal in this town because many residents have ethnic Chinese backgrounds. Family obligations lead people to leave work early or skip it altogether. At our office the pace slows noticeably.

One colleague doesn’t have family here but misses the traditions he grew up with. Two years ago he began distributing the red envelopes filled with small amounts of paper money that are known locally as “ang pao.” Traditionally these envelopes are given only to children, but I haven’t noticed anyone turning down the offering when this guy goes door to door with his New Year gifts.

This year our sugar daddy stayed home on the first day of the multi-day festival because he wasn’t feeling well. A secretary who is known for her wisecracks wondered aloud if somebody else was planning to step up. She stopped me on my way to the copy machine. “Hey, John. Aren’t you forgetting something?” I checked my fly but found nothing amiss.

“No, not that,” she said. She put out her hand. “Don’t you know today is the day old guys are supposed to hand out ang pao to the kids?”

Obama-Mania

Everybody’s talking about the speech. Thais are just as excited by Obama as the Americans are. The guy truly is president of the World.

People here were impressed that his inaugural addressed mentioned Khe Sanh, the frequently contested battleground during the Vietnam War. That reference, and his specific inclusion of many religions and cultures, strikes a chord here among those who believe the most important outcome of the election will be a we’re-all-in-this-together attitude from the U.S.

Those same people appreciated when he said “our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please.” It took me back to a meeting of the Democrats Abroad that I attended nearly a year ago. This was before Hillary Clinton had dropped out. In the back room of a Bangkok Starbuck’s, the discussion leader asked the assembled Americans about which issues were most important to them in the campaign.

We went down the list: “Crime?” No hands went up. “Social Security?” A few takers. “Health care?” A few more. “America’s standing in the world?” Every hand in the room.

My Day ON

Three-day weekends are glorious, especially when your employer celebrates a day that nobody else in the country takes. But on MLK Day, I always hear the voice of my conscience, reminding me that “it’s not a day off… it’s a day on.”

That was the voice whispering to me as I began boulder hopping up the Nang Rong Falls in search of the perfect swimming hole. My trip out there the previous evening, via van, bus, and motorcycle, had only taken a couple hours. Traffic had been going the other way, most people heading back to town in time for work on Monday.

So my mood was pretty upbeat. Traveling light. Wearing shoes that stick, even when the rock is slippery. Looking forward to raw papaya salad for lunch.

Except for the conscience part. I couldn’t really claim to be performing any individual acts of kindness through service to others, or strengthening any communities. My main goal for the day was to climb high enough up the stream that I wouldn’t offend anyone when I stripped and jumped in.

That climb ended up taking a while, partly because it was such nice weather that I just kept on going, and partly because I kept spotting hints that people might be around. Hints like plastic drinking straws, Styrofoam containers, and empty beer bottles. Voila! Instant service project! On my way downstream I filled six bags with trash.

One lesson learned: in Thailand, empty beer bottles sometimes become a convention center for red ants. They bite when bothered. With experience, I became a bit more selective about what I picked up.

Mistaken Identity

Three weeks after failing to find acupressure near my office, Jip and I ventured out to a hospital near our place in hopes of relieving her shoulder pain. We’d been assured that an experienced practitioner of this Chinese therapy held a clinic there on Saturday mornings. His name, as I understood it, was “Puang Paa.” Jip was doubly excited about meeting him, first because his name translates as “reliable,” and because she prefers men doctors.

I had learned from our previous experience that we should make an appointment. Also, we brought along the caregiver who was working that morning. I figured she could explain Jip’s symptoms better than I could. She happens to be the youngest of the three women who take care of Jip, but she has more experience working in health care settings than the other two. That experience, I thought, would offset the reluctance among many Thai people to ask questions of their doctors, especially if the age gap is fairly wide.

The busy waiting room is ringed with doctors’ offices, each with a name on the door. I walked around looking for Dr. Puang Paa. No sign. Not to worry. Most likely once-a-week docs don’t get a sign of their own, I reasoned.

The nurse who called Jip’s name led us to a room where we found a woman sitting at the desk. The name on the door was Fuang Faa. She asked what seemed to be the problem.

Then, déjà vu. Jip asked who she was. She looked at me, not understanding Jip’s speech. I explained that not only is Jip’s vision quite poor, and her speech somewhat impaired, but she likes to know a little about her doctors’ backgrounds before she begins. The doctor said her name was Fuang Faa. Jip asked where was Puang Paa.

Jip’s caregiver flashed me an “Uh, oh” look. She deduced faster than I did that I had mixed up the name’s first letters, which in Thai look as alike as they do in English. Jip hadn’t understood yet that this woman was the doctor, and so continued to ask when he was going to arrive. The doctor continued to ask what seemed to be the problem. Things were not starting out well.

After several minutes it became clear to Jip that there was no Puang Paa, and became clear to the doctor that there was nothing she could do for Jip. Dr. Fuang Faa told us, a bit too bluntly for my tastes, that we had been referred in error, that her specialty was acupuncture, and that anyway the best kind of doctor for us would be a neurologist. Jip laughed, saying that because she had lived with this disease for a long time, she could probably teach most neurologists a few things about it. Things were not progressing well.

I was ready to flee the scene. Just as I started to move toward the door, ready to apologize for wasting everyone’s time, the voice of Jip’s caregiver froze me in my tracks. She was addressing the doctor.

I listened with a mixture of horror and delight as this twenty-something told this fifty-something that she needed to have a bit more respect for her patient. The caregiver suggested that instead of talking about Jip as if she weren’t in the room, that the doctor could try putting herself in Jip’s shoes for a minute. That perhaps more listening and less lecturing were in order here. That even if the doctor couldn’t do anything for Jip, that there were gentle ways of letting us know that.

Or at least that’s the way I understood it. A certain amount may have been lost in translation. But whether or not the caregiver was really speaking as fiercely as I thought she was, now I was really ready to run. It even occurred to me that Dr. Fuang Faa was preparing to pick up the phone and call security.

A hospital nurse, who had been standing silently throughout the interview, mercifully brought things to a close by whispering that the next appointment was probably ready. We all filed out. I asked our caregiver about where to find the cashier. She told me that there would be no bill, and led the way to the exit.

Shophouse for Shoulder Pain

Jip does not generally complain about her body. Of course, she can find other things to whinge about—caregivers, lousy cooking, the perfume of a visitor. But about aches and pains and other limitations, her calm amazes me. If the tables were turned I’m sure I would be the bitterest of patients, constantly grousing and wondering “why me?”

On the rare days when she mentions something that hurts, I don’t wait too long to see if she brings it up again, as I do when she tells me her oatmeal is too mushy. For one thing, she is numb more places than she isn’t. So if something’s bugging her, probably it means that a normal body would be really throbbing.

Last year she began to complain about her left shoulder. It made popping sounds when she raised her arms above her head. She asked the caregivers to start every day by massaging it. I figured that would do the trick. But when she continued to seem annoyed, moving her arms in circles at all hours of the day, we added arnica cream into the mix, remembering that it had relieved other troubles in the past. Finally Jip wondered if we could try acupressure to make it feel better. She was drawn to this Chinese treatment because she felt acupuncture gave her good results when we lived in Seattle.

I asked around. Somebody recommended a clinic not far from my office. I’d been hoping for a place closer to our apartment, because I knew that if Jip liked this healer, we’d need to go there often. In Bangkok we always have to figure traffic into the cost-benefit analysis of any activity.

Also, if I’m to be really honest, I confess to a certain degree of “treatment fatigue.” Jip shares this tendency. We both warm up slowly to any new therapeutic idea. Over the years we have tried lots of cures for lots of conditions. Few of them could be said to have had lasting effects for Jip. Even acupuncture lost some of its appeal after the first practitioner we tried here failed to meet Jip’s standards (in other words, he didn’t do things exactly the same way she remembered from her favorite guy in the States).

However, acupressure had been her suggestion, not some trumped-up offer from a well-meaning acquaintance. So last month we headed out the door on Christmas Day, when I didn’t have to work but the rest of Thailand was business as usual.

Alas, the roads were also business as usual. It took our taxi nearly an hour to crawl its way to what turned out to be a yellow-painted shophouse, open to the busy street. I could see seven or eight massage tables inside, about half of them occupied. I had called for directions, but we hadn’t made an appointment.

A few people came out to investigate (we often attract a crowd when we re-assemble Jip’s wheelchair), and then pointed us to a corner where I assumed we should wait for the doctor. It wasn’t clear to me who was in charge. A man wearing hospital scrubs moved among the tables, talking to the people lying on them. Two women sat at desks, but neither of them looked like receptionists. They could just as easily have been patients, or perhaps the doctor’s cousins. On the walls were posters showing the human musculoskeletal system.

Eventually one of the women came over with a collection of scratch paper that had been stapled together into what I guessed passed for a patient information form. I wrote down Jip’s name, our address, and the word “shoulder” before handing it back. The woman nodded. We waited. Although the day was warm, and the large floor fans weren’t quite up to the task, Jip seemed happy to be there. “Merry Christmas,” I said to her.

The man in the scrubs approached after about half an hour. He addressed Jip by name, and asked what seemed to be the problem. She asked who he was. He looked at me, not understanding Jip’s speech. I explained that not only is Jip’s vision quite poor, and her speech somewhat impaired, but she likes to know a little about her doctors’ backgrounds before she begins. He told her his name.

The name was the same one I had been given when the clinic was first recommended, so at least I knew we were in the right place. Jip then spoke again, and this time he seemed to catch the words for “shoulder” and “stiffness.” He placed his hand on Jip’s wrist and closed his eyes.

Two or three minutes later, having apparently taken a reading of some kind from Jip’s pulse, the doctor opened his eyes again and confirmed that indeed she had shoulder stiffness. He asked us to come back the next day so he could begin to treat her. It might take many sessions before we saw any change, he said.

My face probably fell slightly at the idea that for each hour spent in a taxi that day, we would have spent only one minute with a doctor, and that we could look forward to repeating the trip the next day. Also, Jip, not quite sure how he knew that she had shoulder stiffness when he yet to move her arm, seemed confused.

Hoping to learn a bit more about what we might expect in the long term, and trying to sustain the conversation a bit longer, I asked if there was anything we should do in the meantime. The doctor asked if we had a spirit house where we lived.

I was pretty sure that there was no spirit house at our apartment building. The question hadn’t occurred to me before—other factors were much more important when we decided to move there. But I told the doctor I would check. He said it was important that we have a spirit house. I could tell from Jip’s expression that she wanted to hear more about her shoulder.

I tried asking about how the acupressure would actually work, knowing ahead of time that I might not understand the answer. The doctor stood up and began to squeeze Jip’s shoulder between his thumb and forefingers. Instantly her eyes widened, and her mouth formed a circle shape that seemed to say, “My goodness! This guy knows what he is doing.” He stopped shortly after he began, and told us he would see us tomorrow.

Wondering if we had missed something in translation, I called Jip’s brother when we got home. I told him that Jip was excited about our morning. He volunteered to meet us there the next day. I started to give him directions, but he said it might be quicker if he called the office himself. I gave him the phone number, and as an afterthought I asked if he remembered seeing a spirit house anywhere on the apartment grounds. He said he didn’t think so.

A few minutes later he called me back. He said there was no need for any of us to return that doctor. Really? I said, trying to sound neutral. I knew Jip was looking forward to it. Chao explained that he had asked a few questions in addition to directions. He was convinced that the doctor’s methods were based more on superstition than science.

Such methods have a wide following here. Just a few weeks ago I heard a lecture at the Siam Society about how many prominent politicians participate in rituals connected to what’s called “sai ya saat,” or black magic. When I told Jip that Chao felt the accupressurist believed in sai ya saat, she instantly changed her opinion of him. We’ll try Plan B.

Return to Reunion

Our holiday e-mail, just sent out yesterday, included a picture of Jip and me at her 25th college reunion last summer. This afternoon, the postman brought a CD from the reunion organizers, containing dozens more photos from that day. Here are a couple that include Jip.

Standing Taller

A by-election Sunday resulted in small gains for the new prime minister’s party, which may make him less vulnerable to challengers and people throwing eggs. The country hasn’t forgotten the troubles of the previous couple months, but with a little luck, governing will become easier.

Frankly, I’m amazed that anybody else would want his job at the moment. The crummy world economy spells tough times for every country. Tourism-dependent places like Thailand face special challenges as people cut back on air travel. Large numbers of Thais continue to show their loyalty to the previous government by wearing red shirts and demonstrating loudly at events where the prime minister is on the agenda.

Instead of guessing why a person would voluntarily take on headaches like those, I’ll just repeat what I’ve admitted many times before: although what I know about Thai politics might fill a volume, what I don’t know about Thai politics would definitely fill a warehouse.

Abhisit has been in office for roughly a month. I’m crossing my fingers that his standing will continue to improve and the sound of squabbles will grow quieter.

You Can’t Make an Omelette Without Breaking a Few Eggs

During the recent visit by our Seattle friends we often made dinner at home. Eggs featured on the menu nearly every time. One day Laura brought home a dozen, planning to scramble them.

Surprise! She’d bought a local delicacy known as salted eggs. From the outside, it wasn’t easy to tell that this dozen had soaked and toughened up in special brine. When she tried to crack them, it was obvious right away that they weren’t destined to become her evening meal.

The caregivers were delighted. They watched from the side of the kitchen with expressions that seemed to say, “More for us!”

Color of the Day

Good friends from Seattle have stayed with us over the holidays. As always it’s been fun for me to remember what Thailand looks like through the eyes of newcomers. The 13-year-old daughter in this family has paid special attention to the local custom of assigning a color to each day of the week.

Our apartment building has a weird quirk that makes this custom hard to miss: the rug on the floor of the elevator gets changed every day to match that day’s color. It only took Dana about 48 hours to master the cycle. On Sunday she commented on the rug. Monday, she noticed the predominance of yellow shirts, and right away started asking about the rest of the week. Eventually she even created this handy what-to-wear-when guide. You may want to print it out, should you be planning a trip here.