Blood in the Streets

Red-shirt activity picked up over the last couple days. The protesters scored a big PR victory this morning by pouring a few liters of a blood-like liquid into the prime minister’s driveway. Last night they did the same thing outside his office.

There’s lots left over—some reports suggested that as many as 50,000 people stood in line under a hot sun in order to donate 10cc each. No matter whether it gets used for anything else (somebody said an artwork is planned), the stunt made a big splash.

It worked on several levels. Blood’s color matches the protesters’ shirts. It symbolizes sacrifice. The spilling managed to recall countless previous struggles in which people gave up their lives, but it did so nonviolently. Newspapers all around the globe put the story on page 1.

Most likely this drama was dreamt up by well-paid image consultants. If so, they know their audience. The photo op began with a ceremony conducted by a white-shirted Brahmin priest, whose black-magic incantations I’m told appeal to the red shirts’ rural base. (The photo at right was stolen from a news website—I wasn’t there.)

Yesterday’s blood, which had been mixed with anticoagulants and plenty of disinfectant, was quickly mopped up by dozens of workers who were standing by, dressed for the party in biohazard gear. Today, buckets of rain happened to fall just as the protesters were emptying their liter bottles on the prime minister’s fence.

Health professionals were dismayed by the waste. Others said the displays would ultimately hurt the red shirts’ chances of achieving the power shift they say they want. To me the whole performance seemed like a big win.

Million Man March?

Things have been pretty quiet politically in Thailand, at least on the surface. No big protests, no elections to serve as flash points, no sign that the king’s health is any better or worse (he’s been in the hospital for nearly six months straight, suffering from what are always referred to in the press as respiratory ailments).

A couple weeks back the high court handed down a long-awaited decision on the seizure of Thaksin’s assets, many of which have been frozen in Thai banks ever since the coup that ousted him as prime minister. We’re not talking about chump change here—the sum under consideration was in the neighborhood of $2.3 billion.

The court’s judgment was very Thai. It split the difference. In essence the verdict was to let Thaksin keep his pre-prime-minister money and let Thailand keep his post-prime-minister money. What this does is make the country a tiny bit richer and Thaksin a tiny bit poorer. What it doesn’t do is heal the political divide in Thailand. No matter which side you fell on before the decision, you still have basically the same complaints after the decision.

Hence this weekend’s latest in a series of “final showdowns,” attempts to rally wearers of one shirt color or another in support of a new government. One such showdown by the yellow shirts, at the airport 15 months ago, achieved the desired result. Now it’s the opposition red shirts’ turn. They threatened to tie up traffic at several points around the city. People took them seriously: everyone worried enough on Friday about clogged roads that many offices, including mine, urged everyone to go home at noon.

The next day, the streets and sky train seemed eerily empty, as if people thought they might get caught in some kind of crossfire if they went out. At the restaurants where I ate lunch and dinner, the staff were delighted to finally see customers. The rallies, which were held far from where we live, reportedly attracted nowhere near the million people that organizers hoped for. Maybe a million people were scared into staying home and off the streets?

Trust in Allah But Tie Up Your Camel

This is a story about suspicion.

It takes place on a Saturday morning in Bangkok. Thai post offices close at noon on Saturdays. I show up with five minutes to spare. My fat manila envelope is addressed to a nice couple in Seattle. These folks have told me in past letters that they’re stamp collectors.

I ask the guy at the window not to use the postage meter like they usually do these days. “My friends like to see the Thai stamps,” I say. He weighs the envelope and lets me know how much. His colleague stands near the door, waiting to lock up.

“All set,” he says, handing me my change. Only problem is, he hasn’t put on the stamps yet. Paying for stamps in Thailand isn’t a guarantee of getting stamps. Somebody told me once that you shouldn’t leave the counter until you see the postmark applied.

I’m thinking: should I stall?... nobody is behind me in line… I’m the last customer… If I hang around, it’s going to look pretty obvious that I don’t believe this guy is honest… yet I should verify... I want my friends to get this package, which took a while to put together… and the price wasn’t cheap.

I bend down and reach into my backpack, pretending to look for something, hoping he’ll start reaching in his drawer for the stamps. Instead he gets up, walks over to another window, and starts talking to the guy who’s totaling up that till. Now I’m sure I’m being cheated. They’re probably all in on the scam. The one near the door signals that the office is getting ready to close.

Next I fumble with my reading glasses, as if I need to get them sorted out before I move along. The stamp seller returns to his window and fumbles with something I can’t see, as if he needs to tidy up his desk before he moves along. Nobody says anything. I feel like all eyes are on me. The word in Thai for “postmark” escapes me, so I don’t ask.

Just as I’m about to stand up and demand to see my package, he holds it up. Every square inch, except the places where I wrote the addresses, is covered with stamps. All of the denominations are different. There are no duplicates. It suddenly hits me that the guy had gone over to his buddy’s window to get a few different issues to add to the diversity.

I’m standing there feeling like dog crap as I look at his artwork. It’s a beautiful gift from a Thai civil servant to a couple he has never met on the other side of the planet. We both smile really wide. No hard feelings.

Pick Your Own Definition

Longtime expats here inevitably develop pet theories about the differences between Thailand and wherever home used to be. A Brit I met on a Siam Society trip earlier this month likes to talk about what he terms the respect continuum.

His idea is that Easterners and Westerners often find themselves on opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to privacy and tolerance. For example, it’s not unusual here for a late night party to intrude on others’ personal space—loud music after hours doesn’t lead to calling the police, as it might in the West. The Thai attitude in this case is live and let live.

This fellow calls that attitude disrespectful. But he also knows that Thais mean no disrespect when they engage in community fun that compromises others’ “rights,” such as the water throwing that happens every year at Songkran. He might even admit that being alone here is rare, and considered something to be avoided if possible.

Furthermore, he admires what he feels is a high acceptance in Thailand of people who are different from the norm. He says Thais are much more willing than Europeans to show consideration to gays, different religions, foreigners, and so on. As Aretha sang:

R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Find out what it means to me

Gotta Start Somewhere

Jip’s caregivers are trying to eat healthier. I have to smile listening to them talk about it. Right under their noses is somebody who always gets her 5 to 9 daily servings of fruits and veggies, who loads up on fiber every morning, keeps her total fat intake way under a third of her total calories, and regularly eats sources of omega-3 fatty acids. Jip could pretty much write the handbook on nutrition.

Yet for her caregivers, turning over a new dietary leaf means daily doses of chlorophyll liquid supplement. According to the label on the bottle, chlorophyll is a good “odor neutralizer.”

(To be fair: lots of Thai people have fallen into poor eating habits over the past couple of decades. Especially in urban Thailand, fast foods and suspicious snacks are much more readily available than during my first trip here in 1986, when I recall the opening of a Dunkin Donuts shop being a huge deal. Back then, more people ate more like Jip does now. Today, Ministry of Public Health Ministry people always tell our office that while they appreciate the U.S. assistance with infectious diseases, their bigger concerns are diabetes, obesity, heart disease, and cancer.)

Pink Season

There’s a very pink tree in bloom here at the moment. If memory serves, it’s right on time. Yet the air temperature isn’t as cold as it should be. Everyone has commented that Thailand’s cool season (never long enough—or cool enough—for my tastes) never showed up at all this year. As the scientists have been telling us for a while, weather is getting wackier and wackier. But this one tree species (Tabebuia rosea) doesn’t seem to have gotten the word. Perhaps we should consider basing seasons’ names on color instead of temperature?

Pride in Workmanship

If you want your scissors sharpened or your shoes repaired in the U.S. nowadays, odds are good you probably have to go to a mall, if you can find those services at all. Here in Thailand there are thousands of street vendors whose specialized skills can still be purchased at a pushcart… assuming that the customer arrives before the goods are rolled down the street toward the vendor’s home.

In our neighborhood sits a guy who does all things wristwatch. He changes batteries, replaces wristbands, solders loose wires. His prices are reasonable. Best of all is his slow, patient technique. I’ve been known to wait a whole week for him to be around, just so I can watch him work.

Last time I brought him a problem, he spent at least 15 minutes longer on it than I would have expected, just so he could get it right. Whenever he chose a tool, it was the perfect one for the task. Removing the watch’s crystal, he paused to dust off the face with a cool little bellows-like gizmo that seemed designed for only that one task and none other. Then he fished through drawer after hidden drawer in his cart, pulling out spare parts that presumably he had saved “just in case.” It wasn’t enough for him to find the odd-sized band or the custom clasp—he also had to hone and file and create a tight fit.

His focus, like his tools, is sharp. Not for him the side conversation or the wave to a passerby. Even when he’s finished and I try to slip him something extra, his directed gaze doesn’t change. “It’s all part of the service here,” he says, passing me back my attempted tip.

Back to Ban Rai

After visiting Jip’s family in the South, Murph and I had time for one more trip before she had to return to the U.S. We took a van up to a small town that I wrote about on hipbelt about 18 months ago. The attractive resort there and its friendly owner haven’t changed. We ate a delicious dinner at treehouse-style tables next to the lodge, and as before the owner refused to me pay for the meal. When we asked about massages, she replied that the town still didn’t have a shop of its own, but that the hospital where she worked during the day offered Thai herbal massage as part of its outpatient therapy. Soon we were on the table. I have no idea what our host listed on the hospital registration forms as our complaints, but the cure was lovely.

I thought Murph would enjoy seeing the monastery in Ban Rai that remains the most unusual religious building I’ve visited in Thailand. Wat Tham Khao Wang looks more like a palace than a temple. For one thing, it’s four stories high. For another, it appears to emerge from a mountainside. Its wooden rooms generally have one side open to the elements. We climbed a series of stairs to the top level, only to find a weird shrine constructed mostly from empty bottles of Red Bull. At the base are pictures of the king and queen, at the top is a Buddha image, and around the edges are various containers for burning incense. I knew some people put lots of faith in energy drinks, but I hadn’t been aware that they were worshiped in this way.

Hospice at Home

Jip’s Grandma has lived nearly a century. Yet when we visit the family home, she always comes across as the healthiest of the three generations of Thai women in the room. Mom needs help to do certain tasks because of her arthritis (though it’s hardly noticeable because her spirit is so strong). Jip of course has lost lots of abilities.

Grandma’s main limitations, other than poor hearing, have mostly seemed self imposed. She would say that she has earned the right to take it easy and be waited on. To her, the idea that older people should hang on to their independence as long as possible is ridiculous. She used to gently complain to Jip that a “younger” (early 80s) woman across the road got more frequent “service” from her family than Grandma did.

This month Grandma is finally getting her wish, although she may not have much awareness of it. Over the last several weeks, age has finally caught up with her. She appears not to really be able to tell the difference between night and day, sleep and being awake. Mom has hired a neighbor to help with some of the basic needs.

When Chao, Jip, Murph, and I drove down last weekend, life was happening all around Grandma. She lay on a small mattress near the center of the living room, but she wasn’t always the center of attention. She was still surrounded by all of the things she has always felt a responsibility to look after—various heirlooms, a little white dog named Diamond, maybe some gold stashed away somewhere—but now they were other people’s problems.

She can’t walk or feed herself anymore, but those changes don’t especially concern anyone, except possibly Diamond, who spends much of his day curled up nearby her. Everyone simply accepts that her time is coming soon. Now and then a neighbor drops by “just to see the old person.” (Grandma may be the longest living resident of Ban Krud.)

During our first visit there after returning to live in Thailand, Grandma told Jip that the two of them might never see each other again. Looking at her sparkling eyes back then, the prediction seemed hard to believe. This time, Grandma is no longer able to say it, but she doesn’t have to. We’re all ready.

Born on Christmas Day

My sister Murph is in Bangkok for two weeks, so Jip and I were able to celebrate Christmas with family for the first time in a while. Putting up a tree in the living room seemed in order. Murph and I inspected the plastic imitation-spruces at the department store but couldn’t bring ourselves to go that route. Instead we opted for long strings of fairy lights, which we strung on two tallish tropical plants that we brought inside from the balcony. With a few ornaments on the branches and a few presents underneath, the trees almost looked like they came from a single stem.

The caregivers by this point are like part of the family, and none of them had really ever had a proper Christmas morning. The one working the night shift happily agreed to stay a little late, and the one working the afternoon came a little early, bearing a fine assortment of Thai treats. By 10:30, all three were definitely proclaiming tidings of comfort and joy.

We let nothing us dismay as we gathered in the kitchen for a good feed, featuring coconut milk something-or-others, sparkling cider, guavas, and a few other things that have never appeared together on any holiday menu that I’ve ever seen. Jip didn’t partake, but she enjoyed listening to the squeals coming from the groaning table. More shrieking followed as we opened a few presents.

By noon things were back to normal. Jip’s daily routine was well underway; the three bottles of perfume that the caregivers had specially requested from America were stashed away where Jip didn’t have to smell them. Murph and I headed off to a quirky attraction that attempts to offer a one-stop tour of the entire country’s most important architecture. The Ancient City’s scale models are placed roughly where they belong on a big piece of Thailand-shaped land our near the airport. Our full afternoon of bike riding past palaces, stupas, and temples was another Christmas first.

Setbacks

In the past couple of months Jip has had a couple of flare-ups caused by her disease—the first backsliding we’ve seen in more than three years. Luckily, she seems to be back to normal now. But these episodes sadden me after such a long period of stability. The caregivers and I have talked together about the possibility that their jobs could get harder in the future.

One unusual sign was Jip’s number-than-usual mouth, which made eating and speaking more difficult. She didn’t seem bothered, but the women all mentioned their concern. That lasted about three weeks. Later, Jip had another low sodium episode. It was easy to fix, but before we turned it around, for about half a day she looked pretty woozy and unresponsive, which was new to this group of caregivers. One in particular seemed quite spooked by the whole thing.

I’d like to think these setbacks will be temporary and rare. They’re also a reminder us to treasure each day. I know it’s a cliché, but happiness is a choice. Jip has always been the greatest teacher of that lesson. It’s best for us to be thankful for all the stuff that is working well.

Getting Exercised in Indochina

Back to Angkor Wat for another chance to run among the temples. Several mates joined up this year, multiplying the fun. In fact the race came at the end of an athletic week. Vinnie, my pal since fifth grade, and his wife Tina met up with me in Vietnam to do some biking through the Mekong Delta. We then speedboated up the river to Phnom Penh, and then went on to Siem Reap by car.

Two years ago, the three of us arrived at Angkor Wat together from the Thailand side. Vinnie and Tina, whose home is in the U.S., enjoyed that trip enough to come back for a rerun. No telling what kind of sporty Southeast Asian adventure we’ll dream up for 2011.

Thanksgiving Delicacy

Yesterday we had the day off work because our office follows the American holiday schedule. I prepared lots of Thanksgiving food for Jip and myself, expecting we would probably have a quiet, early meal around 2 or 3 in the afternoon. Jip doesn’t like to eat much in the evening.

But she surprised me by saying that she already had a lunch plan and that my food would have to wait until after her exercises, maybe around 7pm. OK, I said, but I better go out and get something to eat now before I faint (I’ve learned not to argue about the small stuff).

I ended up at a place near our apartment that has always caught my eye but I’d never gone in before. It seemed like they could whip up something quick. Then I realized that it was mostly a Chinese menu, specializing in dim sum.

Dim sum is fine if you know what you’re doing, or if they bring around the cart and you can point, but neither case was true, so I decided to keep it simple and ask if they had any Thai salad.

He replied that yes, they had salad, but I didn’t catch what kind. The word he used didn’t sound familiar, but I figured I can always learn something new. Then the plate arrived and it didn’t look familiar either: kind of opaque and a little bit noodle-like, but not exactly.

The taste wasn’t familiar. If you want the truth, it was a little like chewing on shredded plastic. I was faced with that decision you sometimes arrive at with celery: spit it out or swallow the undigested fibers.

After a few swallows I thought maybe I didn’t really need to finish this meal. Food at most places in Thailand has the advantage of being cheap enough that you can always give up and start over if it’s not working for you. So I paid up and walked off, thinking about where I would go for my second lunch.

On my way out I happened to spot the name of my dish on a hand-written chalkboard menu. I recognized the word for salad, but the words “maaeng ga phroon” meant nothing to me. I figured I’d ask a Thai friend at work to translate. In case it was something really weird, I didn’t want Jip to know what I’d eaten.

My friend raised his eyebrows a little bit. “What kind of place was this?” he asked. I told him it was Chinese. He nodded and said, “Yeah, they always care more about texture than taste.” He didn’t want to tell me at first, but I pressed him and so he coughed up what I’d had for Thanksgiving: jellyfish!

Grand Opening

Last Saturday Jip and I made the trek to Prachinburi, a province about two hours east of Bangkok, to check out the restaurant that Chao and his wife have just opened. They did a fantastic job building the open-air, lunch-and-dinner place. It sits next door to a rice field, where diners feel like they’re picnicking.

This grand opening is a milestone for Chao and Lek, who were married more than three years ago but have had a commuter marriage for most of that time. Chao recently resigned his job at Thailand’s biggest newspaper in order to live with his wife, who takes care of her father and runs the family bookshop. It wouldn’t surprise me if together they ended up starting a new family next year, in addition to this new business.

But it’s also a milestone for the connection between Jip and her younger brother. Throughout the time we have lived in Bangkok, Chao has been a frequent visitor, sometimes just to say hello, sometimes to use the pool at our apartment. We’ve even seen a fair amount of him during the construction and outfitting of the restaurant, because he has had to buy supplies in the big city, and has often spent the night at our place.

Restauranteuring is consuming work. Now that the place has officially opened, I doubt he’ll take many days off. If we want to see him, we’ll likely need to take a drive to the country, as we did last weekend.