A special pleasure in May and June is the mangosteen. This fruit’s eggplant-dark rind contrasts shockingly with the white segments inside. Who would guess, cutting one open for the first time, that bleached little pillows would be hiding in there? The taste surprises too. To my tongue it’s a cross between a grape and a peach. Few flavors are nicer. But choosing a good specimen is tricky—part timing, part luck. When a mangosteen is past its prime, the segments get browner and sourer. Trouble is, you can’t know for sure without slicing into it. The outside doesn’t change much with age.
Unopened mangosteens do give away one secret, though. The number of small brown petals on the bottom matches the number of pillows. Every time. Makes a great party trick.
This would be a good moment for the world to denounce the imprisonment of Aung San Suu Kyi. She and Burma face the prospect of being locked up for several more years. The woman is not well. Her doctor has sometimes been prevented from visiting her. Her 64th birthday is this Friday.
Besides being the country’s only democratically elected leader, she’s the world’s only jailed Nobel Peace Laureate.
So the U.N. Security Council, which investigated in Rwanda, Yugoslavia, and Darfur when those places were acting all crazy, should go beyond statements of concern to genuine action. The Association of South East Nations (ASEAN), or at least a significant bloc within ASEAN, should arbitrate between their bad-boy member and the big Western countries whose sanctions haven’t fazed Burma’s generals. Arms sales from China to Burma should be stopped. (I know, I know, and then pigs will fly.)
I say now is the time because popular, attractive, well-spoken symbols of a country’s suffering don’t come along every day. It will be hard to match the momentum potential of this moment. You might consider a letter to Obama or to your members of Congress, urging them to press the UN to act—especially now, before the outcome of her “trial” is official.
Should you ever be tempted to doubt the notion that what goes around comes around, consider this sorry tale.
Two days ago, on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, I finally succumbed to my first bite of durian this year. The big yellow pillows looked especially inviting on the vendor’s cart as I walked past. The season might end suddenly, I reasoned. Best to get it now while it’s fresh.
The next day, still a little bit drunk on the deliciousness, I said without thinking to a guy who asked if I needed anything at the lunchtime market, “Sure, a bit of durian would be nice.” Never mind that this helpful fellow was a colleague, that the market was on the Ministry campus, and that he would be bringing back this eat-it-today-or-be-forced-to-toss-it-tomorrow morsel TO THE OFFICE.
Granted, he too should have realized that such a thing is just not done. It’s understood throughout Thailand that when people eat durian, if they eat it at all, they eat it at home. The stink of this fruit simply isn’t compatible with a professional environment.
The only way around this prohibition, I now see, would be to have bought enough for the entire floor. An open invitation to an all-hands feast might make up for the reek. Of course I was not thinking that way then. For one thing, the stuff is not cheap. Treating the floor could easily have set me back 50 bucks. And as I say, I was not in complete control of my faculties at the time.
So my coworker showed up with the goods, I paid him back ($3), and we agreed to have a little snack together mid-afternoon. The first signs of trouble showed up long before that. People began to darken my doorway, hands on their hips, sporting a look that said, “Are you out of your mind?”
By the time we eventually indulged, despite closeting ourselves inside my little room, everyone within a 100-meter radius knew of my sin, without having to be told. The little smell molecules had made their way throughout the environment as easily as if they had been nerve gas.
And they don’t simply dissipate, as it turns out. Durian lingers. Like the smell of onions or charred wood, durian’s odor hangs in the air long after it is no longer physically present. From the time we finished our nibble (2:30ish) straight through until folks began packing up for the day, I had been scolded in no uncertain terms.
Now, in addition to it being durian season, the rains have finally arrived in this part of the world. Nearly every afternoon we can count on a pretty good drenching, usually lasting abut an hour. Where I sit, on the top floor of the building, this daily event makes a pleasant sound on the roof.
But on this day it hit almost exactly at quitting time, creating a dilemma for people who drive. They knew they would soon be sitting in traffic, their windshield wipers moving faster than their wheels. I slipped downstairs to see a friend I sometimes commute with, to find out what he was thinking of doing.
It turned out the friend had left early. I was away from my office fewer than five minutes. Yet those five minutes were when a drainpipe above my bookshelf overflowed, creating an impressive waterfall that flowed down from the air conditioning unit, through my various volumes, and onto the floor. I returned to find half a dozen people furiously bailing, flinging books, and speculating about whether the flood was likely to get deep enough to endanger the computer.
Nobody else’s office was touched. I stayed till 8 helping to clean up. Wringing things out, I thought, Swift justice! Noah at least got some warning.
Traffic has been backed up at an intersection near our place recently, thanks to a demonstration staged by farmers. I’m not clear about the precise complaint, but they’re determined to get results. They have camped on the sidewalk for a couple weeks straight.
Unlike protests of the past six months here, this struggle doesn’t make headlines, and the protestors don’t all dress alike. Yellow-shirted and red-shirted groups have made themselves scarce since Songkran. I’ve seen a few white t-shirts walking around with the words “Stop Hurting Thailand” printed in the colors of the flag.
Even though this motto may speak for the silent majority, by itself it won’t take care of the country’s troubles. The same words and design are posted on a big sign inside the Thai military barracks where I sometimes run, so already they appear to have been embraced by a faction that is associated with the status quo.
The kids’ bedtimes were approaching, so we said goodbye on the street. My phone rang again. Two other friends wondered which showing of Star Trek 2009 I wanted to meet them at. The movie is showing at dozens of theaters in Bangkok.
But when we met at the theater, Nick said we should choose another screen because the 8:00 show at that place was only for the luxury seats, which cost more than five times as much. We ran into the same problem at the 8:30 down the street. Happily, that part of Bangkok is so packed with malls that we were able to find a 9:00 show for 100 baht ($2.85).
My expectations for the movie were low. I’ve never been a Trekkie (I’m told that Trekker is actually the more respectful term). But I have to say it was pretty great. I’m kind of a sucker for any plot with a time warp in it.
Jip waited up for me. She nearly always does. Even when I tell her I’ll be home late and that she should feel free to fall asleep, she often wills herself to stay awake. When she hears my voice, she reports the latest news from the domestic front. In this case there weren’t many new headlines. She simply wanted to ask me what was the name of that baby who came to visit.
Patama and Noi had to go. I ate breakfast. Jip’s caregiver made her some lunch. A few minutes later, Jip’s accupressurist/masseuse arrived. The phone rang. It was an American couple I know. They and their two young children are thinking of moving to our neighborhood from across town. We had already spoken about their coming by for a swim and maybe a meal at one of the nearby eateries. They were cruising our street, not sure of our exact address.
Thomas, aged four, headed straight in to the bedroom. He asked, “Why does that guy in the bed have that thing on his belly? What’s that stuff inside it?” He had been fooled by Jip’s short haircut. The thing on her belly was Jip’s urine bag, which normally sits under her shirt like a belt, but at that time was exposed while the accupressurist worked on her lower back.
The parents followed behind slowly. Before long the conversation turned to the daughter, Sophia (aged “zero,” according to her brother). Sophia had been in great spirits all afternoon. In the pool she had kicked up a storm. Later, on a carpet, she showed off the muscles that should have her crawling before this month is over. (She was born last August.)
The baby continued to gurgle happily while Jip asked about her. Jip likes kids. As a health educator in the refugee camps, Jip midwifed countless Cambodian babies. She eagerly accepted the offer to hold Sophia, and instantly declared that the girl felt to her to be about two years old. We decided that Jip’s sense of kids’ age was based on the Cambodian refugee children’s growth rates, rather than that of American expat kids.
The five of us went out for a meal on the corner. It was simple fare, but the dad was nearly squealing with excitement because that kind of storefront place is rarer in his part of Bangkok than in ours. He was even more delighted when the (tiny) bill arrived.
Yesterday began for me with a run in the neighborhood. I didn’t get out the door early enough. The heat slowed me down. I took a shortcut, circling back home 15 minutes sooner than I had expected to be done.
Two friends from work had called the night before, wondering if they could come over at 9 in the morning to read to Jip in English. Jip was pleased at the idea, even though she hadn’t met Patama and Noi before.
Before I left for my run, I sent my friends a text message, suggesting they delay by an hour. I didn’t think Jip would be ready. But when I got back I found she had hurried through breakfast because she was excited about the visitors. I wished I hadn’t sent the text.
Jip went ahead with her routine: toothbrushing, toileting, showering. The sweating from my run wouldn’t stop. I changed shirts three times. A friend from Chicago and I skyped, after not talking for over a year. We cut off the conversation when the doorbell rang.
Patama and Noi had been shopping. They brought bags of fruit. We chatted while Jip finished her shower. Sounds from the next room, a hard-edged banter with the caregiver, told me her mood had soured.
Jip lives pretty much in the present moment. So perhaps she was irritated by the caregiver’s efforts to move things along because of the guests. Or maybe the caregiver had gotten a phone call and had chosen to talk rather than explain she was working.
Whatever the reason, Jip was no longer interested in being read to. She wanted to dry off from her shower. I suggested she could wrap herself in a towel and say hello. She said, “no guests.” I knew from experience that those words really meant “there’s too much going on, I can’t process all of this at once.”
The visitors and I hung around in the kitchen, eating the fruit, until Jip was dressed. It was about 11:30. Jip asked my friends where they had graduated from. This question is common enough among Thais who meet each other for the first time. It helps establish where everybody fits in the social scheme of things. For Jip it’s also a way of determining who else she might know in common. Historically only a handful of schools in Thailand have offered nursing or medical degrees. Not surprisingly, they discovered three or four points of connection.
The prime minister announced today Thailand’s first two cases of what’s being called here “New-DNA Flu 2009.” Both people already had recovered and gone home from the hospital. Lab results had just confirmed their strain matched the new human/pig/bird virus that has kept us quite busy at work these past two weeks.
H1N1’s arrival in Southeast Asia was inevitable, but politicians had been crossing their fingers that the country could dodge it. Nobody wants to give tourists another reason to stay away. Meanwhile, as we enter the time when seasonal flu usually peaks in Thailand, the scientists at my office are on the lookout for signs that New-DNA Flu 2009 has mixed with its cousin and reassorted to create a new-new strain.
Today Thailand celebrates Visakha Bucha, the day when, as the story goes, Buddha was born, reached enlightenment, and passed away. The common thread to these events being impermanence, they are marked with candles, flowers, and incense—things that wither quickly.
At one temple I walked past today, worshippers blessed the central chedi using an ingenious pulley system. From a distance, it appeared that a large bird was flying over and over again to the top of the pagoda. (You might spot the bird just above the telephone wires in this fuzzy picture taken with my phone’s camera.)
Ducking through a gate for a closer look, I saw that the bird was made of metal. On a rope attached to the pulley, the bird trailed a bucket of water, which tipped its contents upon reaching the summit. Kids eagerly re-filled the bucket each time the bird returned to earth, while their parents made merit with each “flight” by pushing small bills into a donation box.
I happen to be in Chiang Mai, taking advantage of the three-day weekend, the full moon, and the chance to catch up with some people I haven’t seen for too long. Nobody I know here wanted to join in the most devout observation of the day, a 10-kilometer climb up the side of the city’s famous mountain, starting at sunset and arriving at a classic monastery around 3 in the morning.
So I saved that stroll for another year, and instead met a friend just after dark for three circuits around Wat Suan Dok. We had lots of company there, of all ages. A sermon was being broadcast through loudspeakers, bells were jingling, and kids were respectfully tapping at gongs. Yet the overall mood seemed to be one of silent reflection.
My friend pointed out that people in Bangkok don’t take time to celebrate Visakha Bucha. Perhaps they get stuck in traffic.
It’s been exactly a year since I last took a turn on the exhausting daytime caregiving shift. I’m still in awe of these women’s energy. I’m talking not only about the three women who continue to show up day after day and cheerfully meet Jip’s needs, but also about Jip herself, who goes nonstop from dawn to way past dusk.
Yesterday was Thailand’s (and most of the world’s) Labor Day. It’s not a national holiday, but everyone in this class-conscious society understands who should get the day off and who shouldn’t. At our household the understanding is that I’ll take care of Jip on May 1st unless somebody really wants the overtime. Last year that meant a 24-hour shift; this year I was relieved at 8pm.
And I needed relief. Jip kept me hopping with explanations of new techniques that the caregivers have perfected. I thought I had kept up with these breakthroughs simply by being around during the day on weekends, but of course it’s one thing to watch and another thing to do. We fell behind schedule and stayed there as Jip busily brushed, flossed, lathered, and dried her way through the morning and deep into the afternoon.
We skipped the resting time that normally follows lunch, mostly because lunch didn’t happen until nearly 4pm. When the night caregiver showed up to find that we still hadn’t completed Jip’s exercises, she just smiled and got ready to take over. Jip praised my efforts and said she was renewing my contract. I was just glad I had the weekend to recover.
The Elements of Style has reached its 50th birthday. Last week a friend sent an e-mail followed by one of those quotes that people sometimes use as signatures after their messages. Hers said,
“If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they're happy." -- Dorothy Parker
I smiled at the quote, having come of age with Strunk and White, and having given away dozens of copies to young writers when I was teaching school.
But now I find that to my dismay that not everybody puts the little book on quite such a high pedestal as I have been used to doing. Or perhaps that the world has moved on.
The guest bloggers in a New York Times piece marking the anniversary say that The Elements of Style takes its own rules too seriously, and foists on readers the idea that there is such a thing as the one best style.
I continue to defend the book, especially for happy young readers, who often don’t know enough writing rules to be able to break them on purpose. For such writers Strunk and White serve as a sort of home base. Comfort food.
What Dorothy Parker probably knew and these bloggers have apparently forgotten is that we all start off wanting to be told what to do. After we finish going through puberty, or worshipping our coach/scoutmaster/pastor, or skimming the Lonely Planet Guide to whatever country we’re planning to visit, then we slowly branch out on our own. If our independence leads to mixed results, we can always return to our mentors.
Today the Thai government announced an end to the 12-day ban on large gatherings, and to the detention of people suspected of inciting last week’s protests. The opposition had compared the prime minister’s tactics to those of Thailand’s nastier neighbors. The country’s former standing as a rising star in Asia has been tarnished more than ever.
In the past week several people have e-mailed me to ask what’s really going on with all the red and yellow shirts. Or as Jip says, why can’t people just start wearing orange and move on? I came across an analysis of the situation, written several weeks ago by a Thai academic. The writer oversimplifies the many-layered problems here, and below I’ve condensed his words further because some of what he wrote is already dated. But at least he offers a foundation for understanding the current stalemate:
We are faced with at least two major conflicts:
Conflict of goals: One side (Red shirt) wants a strong government that can deliver on policy promises; the other side (Yellow shirt) wants a weak government, because they think government is corrupt.
Conflict of means: One side (Red) believes that political conflict should be decided by election. The other side (Yellow) believes that the elections themselves are corrupted by money and by local influence.
… The Red is made up of rural-lower class, peasants and others who have benefited from the populist policies of the governments. The Yellow is urban-middle class who dislikes government corruption and doesn’t need the populist policies, but wants fairer deals in business and economics.
… The most recent election resulted in roughly 14-16 million for the Thaksin/Red side, 10-12 million for the Democrat Party/Yellow side. Red is popular in the North (Thaksin's area) and Northeast (poor and in need of development), while Yellow is popular in Bangkok and the South (high political awareness and the traditional Democrat's stronghold).
His sobering conclusion:
What these conditions imply is that violence could spread and civil war is not out of the question. Normally what evolves is either conflict between two groups of people and then the state machine intervenes, or conflict between two sides of the military and the people intervene. This time, however, people are divided and the state apparatus is also divided, therefore the prognosis is potentially quite dangerous.
My trip down under succeeded as a scouting mission. The only downside was watching Thailand fall apart all week. Our good friend Margot happily helped me think through whether it would make sense for Jip to make the journey to Perth some day.
Jip’s favorite foods are available there. Handicap access isn’t an issue. It should be easy to find a time when the weather will cooperate. I even know now where we could hire local caregivers who speak Thai.
So that left the question of what would we do in Australia that Jip would enjoy, and that would be any different from the full and unvarying Bangkok routine that Jip would probably insist on following? Well, during this past week Margot and I beach walked, bird watched, crab netted, wine tasted, and souvenir shopped.
At a small island not far from Perth, people are visitors, birds are permanent residents, and the hourly boat can easily handle wheelchairs. Margot and I walked above the island’s beaches along a wooden boardwalk that passes right next to nests made by gulls, terns, pelicans, and even penguins. Jip would love that place.
In an estuary near Margot’s place we waded knee-deep and netted lots of crabs. Jip could sit on the dock and listen to us squeal each time we pulled one out of the water.
If Jip went to Australia we’d most likely skip the wine tasting and the souvenir shopping. We might not have time for those things anyway. Her routine would take up most of the morning. Margot, who is 80 but has more energy than most people half her age, goes to bed right after dinner (“I like my sleep”).
Looks like all Jip and I need to do is book tickets.
Back in Bangkok after a week in Australia, I find that the government has extended the state of emergency declared last weekend. Early Friday morning, a machine gun ambush left in intensive care the guy who founded the yellow shirt movement (the group that shut down two governments and two airports in the last few years). This guy and his followers played no role in the most recent protests.
I had thought things might be quieter than this. My neighbors had e-mailed me, saying that the city seemed deserted. Indeed, last week’s roadblocks are gone, as are the soldiers brought in to break them up.
Clearly the standoff between Thailand’s competing factions is far from over. Lots of rural and urban poor, led from abroad by Thaksin, still resent the way that the middle class, military, and monarchists and managed to take over last December without a vote. A year before that, candidates favored by today’s red shirts had handily won an election. Among the demands of the red shirts, who suspended their street protests Tuesday, is the prosecution of the ambushed yellow shirt leader for his role in the airport closures.
Jip’s caregivers laughingly reported that they had heard the sounds of the demonstrations from our balcony, and that when their shifts were over they had had no choice but to return home by taxi—buses weren’t running for a few days. The guard downstairs was maybe a bit more candid when I asked him how he’d been lately. “Songkran was no fun this year,” he said.
impressive waterfall that flowed down from the air conditioning unit, through my various volumes, and onto the floor. I returned to find half a dozen people furiously bailing, flinging books, and speculating about whether the flood was likely to get deep enough to endanger the computer.
The baby continued to gurgle happily while Jip asked about her. Jip likes kids. As a health educator in the refugee camps, Jip midwifed countless Cambodian babies. She eagerly accepted the offer to hold Sophia, and instantly declared that the girl felt to her to be about two years old. We decided that Jip’s sense of kids’ age was based on the Cambodian refugee children’s growth rates, rather than that of American expat kids.
At one temple I walked past today, worshippers blessed the central chedi using an ingenious pulley system. From a distance, it appeared that a large bird was flying over and over again to the top of the pagoda. (You might spot the bird just above the telephone wires in this fuzzy picture taken with my phone’s camera.)
returned to earth, while their parents made merit with each “flight” by pushing small bills into a donation box.
were respectfully tapping at gongs. Yet the overall mood seemed to be one of silent reflection.
But now I find that to my dismay that not everybody puts the little book on quite such a high pedestal as I have been used to doing. Or perhaps that the world has moved on.
At a small island not far from Perth, people are visitors, birds are permanent residents, and the hourly boat can easily handle wheelchairs. Margot and I walked above the island’s beaches along a wooden boardwalk that passes right next to nests made by gulls, terns, pelicans, and even penguins. Jip would love that place.
