Curry-Eating Friends

My grandmother lives a clean life. She does not kill any animal—not intentionally—but she is not a vegetarian. She refuses to kill fish that my father brings home from his fishing trips. She also forbids anyone to harm the free-range chickens that she raises for eggs.

One time my father had his drinking buddies over to celebrate the weekend. They wanted to have chicken curry with their whiskey. The men chased the chicken around the house. When my grandmother found out that the party was about to cook her chicken, she said politely to my father’s guests, “If you are going to kill my chicken, just don’t do it in my backyard, okay?” My father’s friends knew what she meant. They took the chicken to a neighbor’s house and brought it back as chicken curry. Grandmother had chicken curry for dinner.

Grandmother is convinced that my father's multiple injuries and deformities are a result of harming animals. In his prime, my father hunted both for fun and for food. When he came home with baskets of fishes, frogs, and snails, my mother and grandmother left them out in a bowl without water. After awhile the fish stopped jumping. Once they became quiet, my mother and grandmother cleaned them. My mother said that they died from a lack of water. Nobody killed them.

One thing my grandmother insists upon is not eating beef. “How can I eat my old friend?” she asked me one day. “Cows are my friends. Without them I would not be here, and you would not be here, either. Cows worked hard on our farm. I talked to them nicely when I wanted them to work. I even saw them cry.”

[Jip wrote this about ten years ago.]

My Grandmother’s Friends

My grandmother is acquainted with angels and hell guards.

She says we are being watched and monitored carefully. The angels know when we are good, and the hell guards know when we are bad. They work diligently to watch how we think, speak and behave in the world. They are good accountants. They keep our records current.

After we leave this world we may get to meet them. Whether we meet an angel or a guard will depend on how good or bad we are. When we die they know how much merit or de-merit we have made and how that will determine our destiny in the next life. If we have made a lot of merit, we might be born again as an angel. If we have not made enough merit, we will be reborn as a human, or we might go to hell.

The angels are beautiful and immortal. They are free from any kind of suffering. They don’t depend on any worldly goods or sensual pleasures to make them happy. They are free from hunger, pain, and desire. They are "eem thip:" instantly satisfied beings. Just the thought of dessert makes them instantly content. They don’t actually have to eat it.

Hell is a chaotic place. It's noisy, smelly, hot, and crowded. People scream, cry, and curse there. Hell smells like human flesh, blood, sweat, and death. Some people in hell look frightened, sad, or worried. When they were human, these people made de-merits. They are in hell as a consequence of their actions. One man in hell climbs a Ton Ngew tree. His body is soaked with blood and his legs are trapped in the thorns while underneath the tree, a hell guard with a spear keeps pushing him to climb higher. This man committed adultery. A woman in hell cooks herself in boiling water in a big wok. While screaming she says, “I will never lie again.”

My mother’s friends live in this world, not in heaven or hell. She can call on them up for help at any time. Ta woon and the gecko are her good friends. Tawoon is a mean, old ghost-like man with a big belly, red protruding eyes, and yellow rotten teeth. He carries a big machete with him. His favorite food is children’s livers because they are sweet and tender.

Tawoon likes misbehaving children. He likes to show up when we give my mother trouble, either by fighting each other or refusing to do our chores. The words, “Tawoon is coming!” always cripple us. We stop our arguing. We run into the house and find the safest spot to hide. We wait for Tawoon to disappear, hopefully without our livers. Luckily no children in my village have lost their livers to Tawoon. We all survived childhood without being caught. Though I have never encountered him, I have a clear image in my mind. One day one of my playmates pointed at an old man and said, “He is Tawoon.” I said no. The man did not look at all like the Tawoon I have imprinted in my mind.

The gecko is another good friend of my mom. He also enjoys children’s livers. The gecko comes out if you cry too loud and too long. When I cried too much, my mother would say, “Quiet down. My gecko friend might hear and come out to look for your liver.” I would hold my tears and move closer to my mom, hoping that she could protect me from this liver-eating friend.

[Third in a series of Jip's writings from 2001.]

Grandmother’s Prayer

In front of the altar, my grandmother enters a different world. Here she is in touch with her ancestors and with my dead sister. At the altar, her past, present, and future interweave and become one.

Prayer quiets her mind and brings her tranquility. Devotion is her path. Few paths have been offered to her. As a Buddhist woman of her time, she has learned her place. Women do not have an opportunity to attain higher merit by being ordained. Offerings, prayers, and devotions are the only paths to merit open to my grandmother. She has hosted numerous Tod Kratin, rainy season devotions when Buddhists offer material goods to the monks. She says that Tod Kratin devotions bring powerful merit.

According to my grandmother, there are two kinds of offerings. One kind, like Tod Kratin, is to the monks, who live life to purify their minds. This kind of offering is called “making bunya.” The other kind is made to those with greatest need—the poor—and is known as “giving dhana.” The giver attains a higher merit when making bunya, since monks have highly purified minds.

On her seventh lunar cycle, when she turned eighty-four, Grandmother gave a food dhana to the whole village. There was enough food for 50 people. Grandmother believes that this food dhana will probably ensure her food security in her next life. Monks who receive food cultivate the good deed of giving. They yield good merit to the giver in this life and the next. But Grandmother thought that some of the people in the village might refuse to take the food for fear that they would have an inferior birth to her in their next life. I took the food. I told Grandmother that if I hang out with her in her next life, I am guaranteed not to be hungry.

[Second in a series of writings Jip did around 2001.]

The Altar Room

Nobody in my family prays like my grandmother. We call the altar corner Grandmother’s corner. The altar is located on the second floor of our Thai house and protected from distracting noises by two tall windows, always closed. My grandmother’s favorite Buddha statue, seated in a lotus position with its eyes closed, is on the top shelf of the altar. A local deity sits on the lower shelf next to a glass bowl containing a bundle of white cloth. Wrapped in the bundle are the remains of our deceased ancestors. Without them, we would not be here.

The dark mahogany floor and walls make the altar corner feel subdued, shadowy and peaceful. On the west wall, a picture of a smiling and walking newborn Buddha is high up near the ceiling. On the south wall, lower than the Buddha picture, hangs an antique picture of the first five kings of the Chakri dynasty. Grandmother orders us not to put anything on the east wall. Anything there will face west: the inauspicious direction. West is for the dead.

The pungent smell of incense sweeps through the altar room every evening. A candle flickers. Fresh flowers, usually Philanopsis orchid, stand near the altar. Grandmother sits tall and straight. Her face turns toward the altar. Her eyes close. Her face is serene. She whispers in the ancient Pali—the language of her father, of her husband, of those who have taught her about this life and the next. Over her eighty years she has made this language of prayer her own. She prays for all beings every night. She prays for herself. She prays for the worried, the alienated, and the deceased.

New Focus for holybasil

Now back in Bangkok, I’m thinking that this blog needs a new focus and new author for a while. Jip wrote some wonderful short pieces about her grandmother and her mom that deserve a wider audience. They were parts of a book she was writing that intended to tell the recent history of Thailand through the stories of three women. I’ll post a dozen or so of the stories over the next few weeks.

The book project gave her great pleasure at a time in Jip’s life, I think it was about 2001, when she decided to cut her research coordinator job to part-time in response to the fatigue that sometimes accompanies MS. She took a trip home from Seattle to see her family, taped several interviews, and transformed what she heard into accounts of grandma and mom’s worldviews. Jip’s own philosophy about things evolved along the way, which you can see in a few of the stories if you’re looking for it.

Later Jip shared the book pieces with my sister Murph, who is a fine writer and editor. By then Jip’s eyesight was giving her lots of trouble. Murph read aloud with Jip, then stitched together a few of the sketches in an order that made sense to both of them. The next several posts will be the result of that team effort from 2004.

The original interview tapes and Jip’s notebooks await my attention. With help from a few people who have expressed interest, and a little luck, maybe in the next couple years I can finish the book she began.

Sendoffs

On the day after Jip’s funeral, I had longstanding plane reservations for a conference in Atlanta, bookended by stops in Seattle and Michigan to see friends and family. As seemed true throughout the previous week, Jip seemed to be directing my movements and those of so many others. I kept to the original itinerary.

One or two phone calls from Jip’s village somehow sparked a large gathering at a Seattle park on the day after I arrived in town. People from several of her circles there created a lovely memorial event, sharing stories, food, and gorgeous weather. Somewhere along the line a website for donations in her honor was created, benefiting a fine MS Center in Denver whose work we’ve long admired. Our goal is to underwrite one issue of their excellent newsletter.

More remembering happened during the Michigan leg of the trip. The family cottage had hosted one of our three weddings. (Pictured at right is my family on a bluff we call “Jip’s Point” because she liked watching the lake from there). I enjoyed quiet visits with my parents, siblings, and three great college friends who claimed to be in the neighborhood by coincidence. At the place I’ve long considered my pole star, I also felt the strangest emotion of the month: a touch of homesickness for Thailand. I suppose I should listen to that clue as I plan what to do next.

Wherever the road takes us going forward, Jip and I couldn’t have asked for better sendoffs from countless special people this past month.

Arriving Home

We went home straight away to Jip’s village for the funeral. Chanting by Buddhist monks began the same night, at the house where she was born, grew up, and was married. On each of the next four nights, the monks returned for another hour’s chanting. A cremation ceremony took place at the nearby temple on the sixth day after she passed away. We scattered her ashes in the Gulf of Thailand.

During the five-hour trip south from Bangkok we narrated each turn so that Jip would know where she was along the way. In the rented van were Jip’s brother, caregivers, uncle, and me, surrounding a coffin that contained her body. Before we arrived home, the well-oiled village event machine had magically set up tents in the front yard. Blankets donated by neighbors were hanging down at the open sides of the tents.

Each evening dozens of people dropped by to make merit by joining the chanting. Each day we received visitors who came down from Bangkok—Jip’s college classmates, my office colleagues, people who decided to skip a Thai Studies conference that had brought them to Bangkok from all over the globe, and even my aunt, who happened to be in the same time zone (Tibet!) when she heard the news. A brigade of volunteer garlic peelers, cooks, and dishwashers kept everyone fed out of a temporary kitchen.

The combination of good friends, relaxed pace, and community ritual was just what Jip would have wished for. Everything fell into place so perfectly that I suspect she had a hand in it.

Some Mixed News About Jip

One night last month Jip went to sleep and didn’t wake up. The story isn’t quite that simple, but basically she made as gentle an exit from this life as anyone could hope for.

She spent her last day giggling and smiling. Her passing was sudden. I was beside her at the end, along with a close friend of both of ours who happened to be visiting Bangkok and one of Jip’s caregivers.

The most immediate cause of death was an intestinal blockage. Possibly, the nerves in charge of digestion had been damaged by multiple sclerosis, the disease Jip lived with courageously for twenty years. Those same damaged nerves meant that she didn’t feel any pain.

I miss her, of course. But I’m also happy that this way she is able to avoid further progression of MS, which had been blessedly stable ever since our return to Thailand six years ago. My own grieving began long before that, as I watched the disease take away so many of her abilities. Happily, MS never managed to rob her of the ability to, in her words, “water the seeds of joy.” She continues to inspire us with her wisdom.

Globalization at the Finish Line

Roadraces I’ve run in Bangkok generally attract a fair number of foreigners—never the majority, but higher numbers than their overall percentage of the population. In my memory they’ve rarely won the races, but one or two might have appeared in the top ten.

Until recently. Kenyans now seem to be entering everything from the 5Ks to the marathons here, and essentially creating two separate contests. This past weekend I joined a 10K along with about 700 other runners. At the halfway point in the out-and-back course, the first eight runners were all from Kenya. Nobody else was within 500 meters of them, and no Kenyans appeared to be behind that pack, unless they were behind me, which seems unlikely.

This trend is interesting in light of a recurring theme in the post-election commentary here. Lots of pundits have pointed out that rural Thais are now more likely than ever to have worked outside the country, increasing their sophistication and lessening the chances that they’ll vote in predictable ways. Historically they’ve gotten jobs in Taiwan, Singapore, and the Middle East, but lately the numbers going to Africa are growing.

It hadn’t occurred to me that maybe the same trend is happening in the other direction. What’s your latest globalization indicator?

What the Thai Election Results Might Mean

Some observers are saying that Thaksin is stronger than ever, or at least in a better position than he would have been at this moment had he not been ousted in a 2006 coup. Parties linked to him have now won several successive elections.

His little sister’s triumph at the polls, while not necessarily a victory for women’s rights (she freely admits she’ll be taking marching orders from her brother), could bode well for reconciliation (whatever that means—the vague term was tossed around in nearly every speech by every candidate during the past couple months). If Thais perceive that a feminine touch at the helm lessens the winner-take-all nature of politics, they may be willing to move forward without requiring retribution. However, Yingluck (Thaksin) and her (his) coalition will control three-fifths of the seats in Parliament, so retribution will be within easy reach. The main check on them will be the generals.

What might be some signs of reconciliation? Tabling discussions of amnesty for Thaksin, for starters. Any moves to bring him home too quickly would be inflammatory. Likewise for any rushed investigations into the violent ending of the 2010 hot season protests. If that violence stays at the front of the discourse, the temptation to repeat it may prove too great.

Investors, who like big wins by pro-business parties, feel this latest election has advanced the prospects of Thailand’s economy. How about Thailand’s democracy? On the face of things, you’d have to say that the one-person, one-vote concept has never been stronger here. The Thai courts, looking out for the interests of the old guard in ways that recall Bush v. Gore in 2000, managed to thwart the popular votes of the last few years by dissolving Thaksin’s party for election irregularities. Now the people’s voices have spoken extra loudly, drawing comparisons, fair or not, to Arab spring.

Yet if recent events lead to Thaksin’s return, and the military decides that Thailand isn’t big enough for the two of them, then probably the country will have taken a step backwards in the democracy department.

House Concert

Old college friends of Jip’s drop by now and then. Usually they come as a big group, bringing with them a playful mood that takes everyone back to life in the dorms.

Sometimes Jip is excited and welcoming, other times she surprises everyone by dismissing them after about 15 minutes. (When sent away, we’ve learned to retreat to the kitchen for a few minutes while she adjusts herself to the idea of a visit. After some time alone, she usually wonders aloud, “Where did everybody go?” and then we pick up where we left off.)

Yesterday a gang showed up with a guitar. They stayed most of the afternoon, singing the Thai equivalents of “We Shall Overcome” and other protest songs that Jip and her crowd used to know by heart. She didn’t join in the renditions, but neither did she get tired of hearing them, clapping vigorously after each tune came to an end.

As they tore themselves away, the guests were already planning the next performance/reunion here.

Music Lessons

Being married to me means Jip has put up with a lot over the years. Her latest trial is having to listen as I practice my latest musical instrument, the Thai hammered dulcimer.

The lousy results I’m producing so far stem mostly from my not being able to guess at all what note should come next in a given song. If I had thought about it for even a second, I suppose I would have known that the musical scale here isn’t the same as what I grew up with. To my ear the notes appear to be slightly out of tune, maybe because there are seven of them instead of eight per octave, each exactly the same interval apart. I’m told that only the octave notes can be matched exactly to the Western ones—the others all sound to us round eyes as if they’re in the gap.

As a result music here isn’t written the way I learned it back when I took piano. In fact it’s often not written at all. People learn songs by listening and memorizing and improvising rather than by reading them off of a static piece of paper.

More on this subject is sure to follow as I bluster my way through weekly lessons. Meanwhile, here’s a video of the first tune our teacher assigned us. The anonymous musician plays the way I’m supposed to (but don't yet) sound at this point in my musical journey. Happily, Jip isn't complaining too loudly. She even asks to be serenaded now and then.

Guilty as Charged

Just when I think this blog serves somebody besides myself, this irreverent post provides a hard look in the mirror:

http://stuffexpataidworkerslike.com/2011/04/11/44-blogging-for-the-folks-back-home/

Sustainable Brains

The main reason for last month’s trip to Ladakh was to visit Edie’s teenaged son, who was spending a special semester at a great school called SECMOL. The inspiring program brings together a handful of kids from the States and about 40 kids from Ladakh, housing them at a solar-powered, composting-toileted, springwater-supplied campus. The Americans who apply for this opportunity are chosen for their potential to grow through seeing a new culture, studying a new religion, and experimenting with new ways of lessening their footprint on the plant. For the Ladakhi kids, the critical requirements for entry are all of the above, plus having failed their 10th grade exams.

Unfortunately, lots of Ladakhi kids qualify for this last requirement. Exams in India are given in English and Urdu, languages rarely spoken in most Ladakhi villages. Especially in the public schools there, opportunities to practice anything except the local tongues are rare. So the SECMOL kids who come from nearby may even have done themselves a favor by not passing their exams, as they are now exposed to English and critical thinking and public speaking and a bunch of other nutrients.

Among SECMOL’s many cool rituals is Conversation Hour. Every afternoon, two or three Ladakhi students are matched with someone from “outside”—perhaps an American their age, or one of the international volunteers that seem to pass through regularly. The suggested topics and partners switch often, resulting in a refreshingly deep and wide cross-cultural exchange.

After Conversation, just as the sun’s last glow disappears behind the tall ridges on the other side of the Indus River, the dinner bell rings. Games of soccer and cricket are wrapped up. Anyone braving a bath has long since pumped themselves a bucket of water and hurried through the nippy ritual.

Now the center of gravity shifts to the dining hall, a large open rectangular space that unlike other rooms at the school is designed to be used after dark. There are no floor-to-ceiling windows here. We sit cross-legged on dozens of large rugs, attacking full, steaming plates of the evening meal. Everyone’s attention is focused on a stage at the front of the room.

One student, the designated master of ceremonies, stands to announce the evening’s lineup. In turn, other students then take to the stage, usually without notes. Their speeches last roughly five minutes, and cover topics as diverse as the economics of solar power and the moral value of friendship. The only noise is the sound of quiet chewing as the audience tunes in to the speaker’s message. The MC shushes the occasional murmur in response to a laugh line or a controversial point, and then, when the speech is finished, encourages questions from the floor.

No speaker escapes the comment round. What strikes the visitor is the patient fielding of the questions. These are teenagers up on stage, and yet there is no squirming, eye-rolling, can-we-get-this-over-with manner. Likewise, the questioners take their role seriously. They’re not afraid to challenge a speaker. Just as often, their feedback serves to rescue someone who has lost the thread, or to tease out bigger ideas from a thin presentation.

Generally the subjects are presented through a cross-cultural lens, meaning that students are constantly reflecting on what’s unique to Ladakh and how they feel about that. It’s no wonder that the local kids come away with a new pride in their heritage. Visiting students find themselves asking whether or not they have a culture. Everyone who passes through this successful school seems to develop at least one new brain.