Most trips I take are enjoyable in the moment. Some stay with me for a few weeks. Now and then I look back through journals or photos of the best traveling I’ve done. But going to Tibet, as I did last week, changes the measuring stick. It was a journey as stimulating as any I’ve ever been part of. My traveling companions and I were continually moved by the Tibetans’ pain threshold and sense of humor in the face of Chinese colonization there and the gradual extinction of their culture.
A few of my reflections are posted on hipbelt. Probably I’ll continue to stew over this trip for years to come.
Back in Seattle, Jip would happily listen to friends reading aloud to her. She preferred real people to books on tape because she enjoyed stopping to discuss a point or going off on tangents. Sometimes it took two hours just to read one chapter. Everyone involved loved those days. The purpose was not to finish the book, it was to extend the back-and-forth as long as possible.
Then gradually Jip’s brain changed and her attention span shortened. She focused on the here and now, became less interested in the there and then. Fewer readers came to visit. They realized that the days of lengthy, teased-out conversations weren’t likely to return. Jip’s listening tastes turned to taped dharma talks—familiar Buddhist homilies she had already heard dozens of times—or short letters and e-mail messages that I would read to her occasionally.
That’s how things stood when we arrived in Bangkok. Many of her old friends here remembered Jip as an enthusiastic reader. When they learned that she had lost her vision, they offered to send over Thai books that the caregivers could read to her. For a long time, Jip resisted. She was so fixated on her routines that she didn’t want to introduce anything that might vary from day to day. She also betrayed some deep-seated snobbishness, saying that the caregivers didn’t have enough education to do justice to stories. If anyone read to her, she said, it had to be in English.
But a short time ago, an old friend and former professor of Jip’s happened to pass through town, and asked what Jip might like to listen to. To my surprise, Jip offered up the name of a book that I wouldn’t have guessed she had heard of, a Thai tale called The Happiness of Kati. This story appealed for several reasons, among them that the author uses a wheelchair. This writer also happens to be the sister of the current prime minister. Jip admires their father because he is an expert on Jip’s disease.
The book sat on our shelf for a while because Jip still refused to be read to by her caregivers. One morning, a couple of my Thai colleagues dropped by. They had come over to read to Jip a few months earlier, but for various reasons the reading never happened that day, so now they were trying again. I suggested The Happiness of Kati. Instantly the story captivated Jip. Her whole expression changed, as if she were a detective listening for clues to solve a case. She interrupted several times to ask questions and share her own experiences. It took nearly two hours to read the first chapter.
She asked Patama and Noi when they could come again. They said maybe they would be free again the following month. Jip’s mouth fell open in disappointment—she had been hoping maybe they could continue the story the following day. On a hunch, I suggested to that afternoon’s caregiver that she pretend to have just noticed the book for the first time, and to flip through it while saying things like, “hmmm, this part looks interesting.” I said that she might want to “accidentally” begin reading it “to herself,” beginning with Chapter 2.
Sure enough, Jip didn’t stop her. In the evening, the next caregiver picked up where the previous one had left off. Tag-team style, they finished the book in three days. The tale hooked Jip enough that it didn’t matter who her narrator was, she just wanted to get to the end. Conveniently, the book has a sequel. Now she lets anyone read to her. The local crew and Jip have finished several stories together. This part of the day is a great addition to the routine.
What a shame that this sham trial wasn’t simply abandoned before it began. For several weeks the world’s only imprisoned Nobel Peace Prize winner has had to endure even worse than normal conditions while waiting for the Burmese so-called justice system to rule on whether or not she was right in allowing an uninvited weirdo to stay the night after he swam across a lake to her house in order to warn her that her life was in danger (duh).
A few days ago she was sentenced to three years’ hard labor, a ruling that was immediately reduced to another 18 months of house arrest (on top of the nearly 15 years she has already spent detained for being "likely to undermine the community peace and stability," according to the junta).
Just when you think that a government can’t get any more wicked than it already is, Burma’s bosses outdo themselves once again.
I’m breezing through Chicago for the second time this summer. It’s still my kind of town. What’s not to like about a place where the baseball fans stick around Wrigley Field for three hours hoping the skies will clear so they can see the Cubs play the Pirates?
Our Sunday afternoon at the ballpark was fun even though we never got to even see a pitch thrown. Just sitting around that fine shrine brings back great memories. Its smells and sounds (such colorful banter, even during a rain delay!) can’t be found in Asia.
Two other outings we took this weekend couldn’t have happened in Bangkok. On Saturday we took in the city’s most popular public sculpture, nicknamed “The Bean,” which didn’t exist last time I visited. Here’s a cool website that gives a 360° sense of what this unusual gathering spot looks like and what else is nearby.
Just beyond the website camera’s lens is a unique fountain and wading pool, where we watched dozens of little people of all sizes and colors play together on the warm day. These two free attractions are great examples of Chicago’s make-no-little-plans spirit, which has always been most obvious along the lakeshore.
The second outing was a trip to Ravinia, the outdoor music festival north of the city. Saturday night’s offering was a concert version of Rigoletto. I’ve seen this opera in Bangkok, but not while digesting a picnic, lying on a blanket, looking up at the stars. It didn’t hurt that the singers and orchestra were world class.
Of course any place where my parents are is a pretty nice place, even if it doesn’t have the Cubs, the Bean, and the Chicago Symphony. I believe I’ll be back!
In the public spaces at our office sits a great assortment of snacks to share. People here seem to enjoy furnishing food to others, not least because a community plate leads to a community conversation. Compared to places I’ve worked in the States, the “menu” is healthier, tastier, and quicker to disappear.
Food donations go way beyond the re-gifting of a fruitcake (as in, “Don’t worry, honey. Why don’t I just take it to work? It’ll disappear eventually there”). My colleagues bring in stuff they really want to eat, everything from cut-up mangoes to sandwiches hoarded from conference coffee breaks. A crowd gathers instantly and laughter breaks out. It’s all part of Thailand’s jobs-should-be-fun-or-else-they’re-not-worth-doing philosophy.
Food quality gets noticed. Word spreads fast when a rare brand of Thai treat shows up, or a cheesecake from a five-star hotel. Particularly fancy dishes get labeled as “hi-so,” short for “high society.” This term gets used to describe everything from deluxe accessories like brand-name watches to pretentious displays for the sake of flaunting one’s privilege.
The last time I brought in something, I got teased about how my contribution looked kind of “lo-so.” It’s true that boiled peanuts aren’t exactly hotel fare. But they disappeared in a flash. Most Thais prefer boiled over roasted, and a few people told later that they appreciate a snack that fills them up without being too fattening. Even the one who teased me confessed that she was responsible for eating at least half the bag. “I said the peanuts looked lo-so,” she explained. “That doesn’t mean they tasted lo-so.”
H1N1 flu numbers are climbing fast here. In terms of the rate of new infections, Thailand today seems to be roughly where the U.S. was a couple of months ago. The sudden surge, along with a death count that doubled in one week, is discouraging to many Thais. Some of them now have another reason to question the government. The government, in turn, has been overcautious about how much it reveals—a PR strategy that usually backfires.
When I returned from the U.S. recently, Jip’s caregivers asked me to buy them masks so they could protect themselves. They assumed I was infected and contagious. Fair enough—I’d just come from the country with the highest number of cases on the planet.
I didn’t mention to them that if anyone should be wearing a mask it should be me. There’s no conclusive evidence that masks prevent catching the flu, but it does seem to be true that they can prevent giving it to others.
Feeling fine, I went to the pharmacy and bought a handful of masks for everyone. As I paid, the pharmacist made a few tick marks on a piece of paper near the register. I asked what she was doing. She said that her shop—a little place on a back street—has been selling ten masks an hour.
Hand washing gel is now available outside the elevators at both home and at work. Rainy season (also the time of year here for the regular, “seasonal” flu) is far from over. It could be a long one.
Headlines here this month aren’t as full of protests as they have been during the previous year, although the country is no less divided. You can draw the dividing lines lots of ways—between old guard and new money, between those who love and hate Thaksin, or between regions.
No matter how you slice it, a smooth democratic future seems unlikely. Winners of recent elections have acted as if they have the right to take all. The current coalition government was not elected. In order to form, it was forced to accept as ministers people who have since been charged in connection with last year’s siege of Bangkok’s two main airports.
How those charges play out may determine whether the coalition holds, as well as the outcome of the next elections, whenever they are called.
It’s common in June and July to hear people mention that their brother or son is planning to ordain for a few months. Historically the monk census goes up during rainy season because not much happens agriculturally
Candidates undergo a kind of interview. Among the questions potential monks are asked is “Are you human?” You’d think the questioner could tell by looking. But according to an old Buddhist story, every now and then a snake will take try to pass himself off as a man. That would be bad. Hence the question.
In rituals like these of course everyone already knows what to expect. Nobody answers the wrong way.
Time for the annual stock taking. We’ve just passed the four-year mark in Thailand. This chapter no longer seems new. We’re residents, not visitors. It’s hard to see how we could be in a better place. Jip’s cheerfulness is stunning. The caregivers keep showing up, rain or shine. I sleep very easy.
Just back from ten days in the States, I get to look at Thailand with fresh eyes this coming week. Transitions like these are good times to reflect on foreign-ness.
Surprises here are rarer and rarer. I don’t do double takes anymore when I see women attendants in the men’s room at the mall (and no more shifting uncomfortably as they clean around the urinals while I’m standing there). Barefoot bus drivers no longer faze me, nor the proudly overdressed Thai security guards. And alas, I’m sure I now take for granted much of the unearned privilege that goes along with being a white guy in this country.
Nowhere else would work better for Jip. When we were in Seattle, I wrestled with the pro’s and con’s of moving to Thailand. Four years on, I wonder what I was worried about. Looked at in hindsight, the decision is a no-brainer. If anything, we should have come earlier.
My karma isn’t all bad. Despite what looked to me like a slow travel day, the airline I chose for a 4th of July trip to the U.S. had oversold the coach section. So without any warning I found myself at the front of the plane between Tokyo and Chicago.
At first I didn’t want to say a word to the air hostess, for fear that she’d kick me out. But by the end of the trip, she was writing me a personal postcard, looking forward to the next time I could fly with them. Details of this delightful flight are described on hipbelt, holybasil’s sister site.
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.
Most trips I take are enjoyable in the moment. Some stay with me for a few weeks. Now and then I look back through journals or photos of the best traveling I’ve done. But going to Tibet, as I did last week, changes the measuring stick. It was a journey as stimulating as any I’ve ever been part of. My traveling companions and I were continually moved by the Tibetans’ pain threshold and sense of humor in the face of Chinese colonization there and the gradual extinction of their culture.
