Not Muzak

At our offices on the campus of the Ministry of Public Health, outdoor loudspeakers sometimes broadcast background music—pleasant, traditional sounds, usually a woman singing softly. Never a loud guitar, never an advertisement. The kind of thing you might hear at a trendy cafe.

So it’s been quite a jarring and reverberating change to have big construction happening next door. We’re treated throughout the day to the poundpoundpound of a giant hammer, several stories tall. This device whacks its business end against an eighteen-inch-wide, one-hundred-foot-high cement chopstick, again and again and again, until only a tiny fraction of the piling is still visible above the ground. Then the huge machine rolls a few feet and clobbers a new piling, overandoverandover.

Hundreds of pilings await their turn to be brutally pummeled into the earth. Why not drill many holes first, and then bury these long poles that will become the foundation of a future building? Because apparently you have to dig a long way down in Bangkok before you reach anything that can be considered solid. The Earth’s crust in this corner of the continent—once known as the “Venice of Asia”—is mostly muck. We’re talking sea level and below! Can you say “water table?” Can you say “we’re sinking!?”

No wonder nobody in this town props up their structures on rectangles of concrete. Instead, every new project, from simple garden wall all the way up to high-rise hotel, starts with the pounding of pilings. That way, the finished product has a pretty good chance of staying level.

The engineer who explained all this for me also solved a mystery that had been bugging me for some time: he said that Bangkok’s sidewalks crinkle because they rarely have pilings underneath them. Unlike the buildings they pass in front of, the sidewalks float on the city’s slurry soil. That’s why they often consist of small pavers or bricks instead of poured cement blocks, and why it’s not unusual to see large gaps form between the sidewalks and the steps of buildings.

Some day I’m sure we’ll forget these few weeks of trying to tune out what sounds like a hardcore punk rock club next door. Today, I’d rather have Muzak.

Leap of Faith

Going back to a place can be tricky when your memories are happy but dated. I knew I was taking a risk returning to Koh Si Chang, the island with the deceptively industrial façade off Thailand’s eastern coast. It had been two years since a pleasing day trip there made me think an overnight would be twice the fun.

But when on arrival we couldn’t find a decent spot for lunch after several minutes of sweaty walking, my friends began to make noises about suddenly needing to be back in town that evening. Things looked up after we hailed a passing “skylab” (the dominant transportation on the island has a unique shape), though our plans remained decidedly uncertain throughout the afternoon.

We had tracked down food and explored a well curated museum of marine life (lots of touch tanks) before we again broached the subject of where to sleep. Our skylab driver mentioned Paree Huts, a new resort at a far corner of the island. However, his credibility had suffered somewhat after we discovered that he had been double dipping—ferrying around other passengers rather than waiting for us at each new circle tour destination as promised, and as my driver two years before had done. I began to have the return-trip-is-never-as-good blues.

That was before we reached Paree Huts. Looking out at an empty Gulf of Thailand rather than at the expanse of supertankers we had navigated on the way to the island, the resort felt far removed from the big city. The manager welcomed us warmly before sending us off across a series of limestone ledges with an intrepid guide to look over the available bungalows.

These bamboo structures seemed to have been designed for the African veldt rather than for the steep side of a rock-strewn island—they were tall and tufty, as though spores had blown in on the wind and established themselves randomly among the crags. Each hut was an engineering marvel, perched on skinny scaffolding but solid when walked in. They never swayed, even when the wind picked up and a rainstorm passed through during the night.

Equally impressive was the design of the swimming pool, which integrated rock outcroppings and cement to form a strange shape that hugged the contour of the hillside. I took a quick dip, my habit when surveying any new lodgings, and quickly determined that the true star among the resort’s water attractions was elsewhere. Sure enough, when we registered, a sign caught our eyes that began, “Please wear a life preserver when jumping off the cliff.” As soon as I saw that, the blues were gone for good.

My friends talked me into waiting until morning to make the leap. The light will be better then, they said, rightly suspecting that I would want photo documentation. I couldn’t wait to get out of bed the next day and head for the edge. Nobody else on land seemed to be awake, so I waited in a life jacket for my cameraman as a seabird and a fisherman each plied the now calm waters in search of sunrise catches.


When the time came to jump, I never hesitated. New memories were being made. Koh Si Chang had risen to the occasion once again.

Grandma Rests

Jip’s grandma passed away peacefully on Monday. She took a nap around noon and never woke up. That morning she refused breakfast for the first time in the 99 years and seven months of this existence (rounded up to 100 years by the designer of a large banner that hung outside the house all week).

Everyone in the village knew her. She wasn’t born there, but since arriving in the 1920s she hadn’t left often. For both of the relatively long periods she spent away from Ban Krud, she was with Jip. They lived together during Jip’s tween years, when her parents sent her to the next province north to attend middle school, a luxury that Ban Krud couldn’t afford at that time. Several years later, Jip took a job in the far north of the country, and invited Grandma to join her for a year. While there, Grandma added a few new basket making tricks to her repertoire.

Just as it takes a village to raise a child, everyone also participates in sending a grandma on to her resting place. This week dozens of people helped cook, put up tents, arrange flowers, and hang the blankets that recently have replaced wreaths as the tribute of choice. It used to be that a coffin would sit surrounded by decorative wreaths, many of them on tripods bearing a sash with the name of the donor. Nobody ever recycled those wreaths. Somewhere along the line a new tradition was born, which allows the merit associated with such a gift to keep on accumulating as the blanket gets donated to a monk at a temple or some other worthy recipient.

Five Thai kings reigned during Grandma’s life. Many years’ worth of stories about her got told during the mourning rituals at the house each evening. This afternoon’s cremation ceremony at the temple was filled to overflowing. At around 11 a.m., loud explosions were set off to let the whole village know that the ceremony would begin soon. By noon every seat was taken and the big open room was buzzing with conversation.

Jip chuckled and grinned throughout, glad to be surrounded by old acquaintances. We brought along two caregivers, which meant that she didn’t have to repeat her story endlessly to the many neighbors and classmates who hadn’t seen her for a while—in some cases over thirty years! Jip’s mom was also in a good mood. Grandma’s health had been good until about ten months ago. Since then the demands on Mom have been pretty exhausting.

Monks chanted. Boe, the only great-granddaughter, did a fine job reading a biography of Grandma that Jip’s brother Chao had done a fine job of writing. Various people went to the altar for various reasons. And then with a minimum of melodrama, the simple casket was delivered to the crematorium that is a standard part of Thai temples. Chao lifted the large photo of Grandma off its stand and walked it away from the altar, never looking back.

For much of this afternoon’s drive back to Bangkok, Jip closed her eyes and smiled. She had worn the same expression all weekend, shedding a tear only once when Boe read aloud a mention of the time Grandma had spent up north. We both were tired. Outside our bedroom window, card playing, dominoes, and chatting had lasted into the wee hours. Most likely they’ll continue till dawn tonight, as often happens on the seventh and final night of a Thai funeral.

French Street Scene

Five weeks after a fantastic reunion in Europe with mes amis and mis amigos, the memories were just starting to fade. Then Jennifer sent these pictures and instantly I was right back there.

Selective Enforcement of Emergency Decree

Hundreds of people gathered in Bangkok a couple days ago, to protest (again) Cambodia’s claim to an ancient temple along the border. Normally such a protest isn’t big news, as the issue flares up every few years. Thai politicians tend to stoke it when they hope to divert the public’s attention away from something more immediate or embarrassing.

But this time an emergency decree was supposedly in force that prevents the assembly of more than five people. Not only that, this protest was led by a fellow who has long been associated with the same group that shut down the airport with impunity during a chaotic week at the end of 2008. (Nobody has yet been prosecuted for that upper-class sit-in, while several people from lower spheres who were involved with this year’s downtown protests have not only been arrested but had their assets frozen.)

Several international human rights groups criticized the government for extending the state of emergency earlier this month. Then last Sunday, a bomb at a bus stop in central Bangkok killed one man and injured several others, around the same time that the government-backed winner of a close parliamentary by-election was announced, leading the prime minister to comment that the extension had been the right decision.

To be consistent in applying the “rule of law” (a concept politicians trot out when it suits), the government would have had to break up Tuesday’s temple dispute gathering. However, in this case the protesters’ cause has wide appeal, as often happens when issues get associated with patriotism. The protest leader acknowledged flouting the decree, but said he was willing to risk the consequences for the sake of “safeguarding Thai sovereignty.”

Pee Rahat

Here’s a Thai tradition I hadn’t known about before it was brought to my attention this week. College freshmen routinely receive the name of a sophomore who will shepherd them through the first year of school. The older one (“pee”) gives without expectation of return, providing books, treats, advice, rides home. Assignments are random—based on the students’ ID number, or code (“rahat”)—but not voluntary. Everyone gets a pee rahat who is studying the same thing they are. This intradepartmental social service, for some, is the first experience of helping or being helped by a non-family member.

Of course the system’s success varies. Some people I asked about it told me that they couldn’t remember the name of their pee rahat, and admitted that when it was their turn they didn’t take it very seriously. Yet one woman I spoke to remembered the connection to her freshman as “much better than a boyfriend.” She is still in touch with him and his whole family, and feels more like his older sister than like a mentor.

At the core of the tradition is the patron-client relationship that plays out so often in Thai workplaces. People never forget their place in the hierarchy.

Half a Decade

The verdict on Thailand, five years after arriving here: it’s still working for us. Whether or not it’s working for the average Thai person is another question.

Jip and I continue to be grateful for the many ways both of our lives have improved since we moved from Seattle. We neither expected nor earned that improvement, yet it’s undeniable. We’re healthier, richer, and much sunnier than we would have been had we stayed in the States.

OK, it’s true this place has had its ups and downs in the past year. My return to Bangkok from Spain last month didn’t generate the same little jolt of glad-to-be-home excitement that I’ve felt on most previous returns to Thailand. (Then again, any place would have seemed a little discouraging by contrast with the two weeks I had just spent with some of my favorite people anywhere.)

I'm over that little letdown now. Rainy season in the land of smiles is floating my boat. It’s a great time for running and reflection. Not to mention, Jip is in great form.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could say the same thing about the Thai political discourse? Alas, progress along the reconciliation roadmap is all but invisible. The country’s institutions just don’t seem up to the task of talking.

Maybe those conversations are going on beneath the surface. To the casual observer, though, there’s been virtually no change to the established order here, in spite of the damage done to Thailand’s reputation and economy by the airport occupations and street confrontations. Elites (and that group includes Jip and me, by the way) still follow a different set of rules from everybody else.

Or maybe, in this part of the world, change doesn’t happen through talk. Lots of people here feel it’s best if a few “phuu yai” make the decisions. Democracy, despite its many trappings throughout the region, is often seen as defective at best, pointless at worst.

Having said that, restlessness is definitely in the air. Although right now appears to be an intermission in the ongoing drama of Thai politics, the times they are a-changin’. The 21st century has brought information and influence to people from all walks of life in Thailand. The country’s mood is temperamental, and unlikely to get less so any time soon.

Composite Sketch

A copy of The Economist magazine’s year-end special issue came my way this week. Though it was already several months old, “The World in 2010” seemed worth skimming. An article that asked “Will 2010 Be a Year of Social Unrest?” caught my eye, and I thought of Thailand’s recent troubles.

Falling incomes, rising unemployment, and weakened middle classes led off the story—not much new there. Then the piece suggested that a given country’s “vulnerability to unrest depends on a host of factors.” My eyes widened as I scanned the list: degree of income inequality, state of governance, levels of social provision, ethnic tensions, public trust in institutions, history of unrest, and the type of political system (“intermediate regimes that are neither consolidated democracies nor autocracies seem the most vulnerable”). Lots of countries fit lots of those descriptions, but the article described Thailand particularly well.

Last week the government chose to extend the state of emergency in most of the provinces where it had first been declared in April. Western reaction to that decision so far has been critical, suggesting that the continuing arrests of red-shirt leaders and closing of opposition-friendly media outlets can’t help but lead to more violence. The Thai ruling class probably fears that anything hinting at compromise with the demonstrators is an invitation for the military to stage yet another coup.

Even though things are calm at the moment, and signs promoting Thai unity (“Together We Can”) have sprouted up everywhere since mid-May, 2010 will likely be a long year.

The Cup in Southeast Asia

Fresh from watching Germany take apart Argentina, let’s review Thailand’s reaction to the World Cup so far.

Wound up? Not much, unless you consider most of the country staying awake until 4am, when the marquee matches finish around here, to be a sign of excitement. Caught up? I’d have to say yes, given how many taxi drivers have been able to recall for me the scores from group stage matches that concluded more than two weeks ago (“Greece-Nigeria? That ended 2-1, if I’m not wrong.”) Vocal? Well, having lived in the same apartment for more than three years, we’ve hardly ever heard a sound from our neighbors… until the past few early mornings.

In a word, the Cup is consuming. Walking in to any of the thousands of 7-Eleven stores here, customers are greeted by clerks sporting t-shirts of the favored teams. Flags of the surviving countries hang from the ceilings. Strangers ask each other who they’re cheering for.

Next door in Burma things are apparently even more energized. According to the Irrawaddy magazine, officials there have magically become able to supply the capital with enough electricity to ensure that all of the games are broadcast live and without interruption. Normally Burmese citizens can count on only a few hours of power per day, particularly during the dry season, when hydro plants run at less than full capacity. Finally, the peoples’ interests overlap the government’s!

Language Re-Learning in Europe

Now and then in Thailand someone asks if I can speak French. I answer, “Oui,” and then manage one or two reasonably understandable sentences before Thai starts pouring out. It’s as if the lobe of the brain where my college French lives has been overwritten by the more recent efforts to learn a new language.

Thai is now the default second. Kick-starting the former tongues requires lots of concentration. These past two weeks, luxuriating in France and Spain with three separate batches of close pals, I was never sure what was going to flow from my mouth. (photo: John Beach)

It was surprising how quickly the old vocabulary flooded back. Most everything I read on signs in France made sense to me, and when shopkeepers addressed me I always knew what they were talking about. Whether or not I could reply quickly was another story, but with each passing hour I got faster—to the point where I sometimes asked myself how I would have said the same thing in Thai.

Of course I never got beyond a paragraph or two before I started giggling. French seemed like a play language, something designed for Barbie dolls or tea parties. I knew I wouldn’t need to use it for long, so I felt it was fair to have fun with it. Unlike in Thailand, where everyone can tell at a glance that Thai is not my native tongue, in France I was assumed to be fluent until I opened my mouth. The people I spoke to there had only a second or two to adjust themselves to someone mangling their language. I let them know right away that they were dealing with a tourist by overdoing the accent.

Non, je ne regrette rien. Vive le français! Vive la crème brûlée! Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Visit to the Rest Room Between Flights in Turkey En Route Europe for a Fun Reunion with Old Friends

It looked from the outside like a men’s room. A sign outside the door read “MEN.” But the security guard at Istanbul Airport questioned me suspiciously as I moved toward the entrance.

Soon I knew why. Just inside the door, piles of shoes were scattered about. To the left was a large open shower stall, with faucets placed around knee height. The thing I really needed, a urinal, was nowhere to be found.

Then I looked to the right and saw the prayer rugs. Men were resting all around the edges of the large room. It was not a restroom. I backed out, past the smirking security guard, to continue my search.

Biking in Bangkok

Especially since the recent political troubles have been making headlines internationally, people have written to ask if I’m in any danger when I go out and about in Bangkok. Short answer: no. Personal safety ranks higher here than in most American cities. A longer answer: the biggest Bangkok danger isn’t protests. It’s the unpredictable behavior of motorcycle drivers.

They snake around stopped cars and buses without really looking to see whether the lane they’re entering is really open. They create their own lane where none existed before, or use sidewalks as shortcuts. Luckily I’ve never had a really close encounter, but at least three of Jip’s caregivers have been hit while walking.

Recently a new category of road and sidewalk danger came to my attention. I had set out on a borrowed bicycle to ride though the neighborhoods surrounding the ministry where I work. The plan seemed worth the risk—I expected to stick to mostly quiet streets. My aim was to find a place we might move to that would offer most of the advantages of our current apartment, together with a shorter commute and a cheaper price tag.

The flaw in the excursion was my assumption that bicycles should follow certain traffic rules. For instance, it seemed to me pretty basic that I not ride facing oncoming buses. Yet many bicyclists I encountered were choosing to do just that. For some reason I had never noticed this behavior as a bus passenger. Now, as a fellow rider, it seemed to be happening every few minutes.

All of us might have managed to share the road if Bangkok had such a thing as a dedicated bicycle lane (you’re thinking, “he’s dreaming what?”). Without that luxury of extra room along the shoulder, somebody had to give way. It was always me, especially because many of the riders coming at me turned out to be a rider and a passenger, making them doubly wobbly.

Another unwinnable faceoff: pedal-driven broom sellers. These folks make their living by riding into small lanes and back streets, hawking large objects that surround them as they ride. I assume accidents must happen, considering how much of their vision is blocked by their wares (see the pic at right). Several of these people were coming my way as I rode around town, and I always found a way to let them pass. I that doubt any of them ever saw me.

At one stage I looked over my shoulder and saw rain clouds gathering. By this time I had already decided to return to where the bicycle really lived. The looming downpour made speed even more critical. The wind picked up. Little bits of dirt and straw that had been sitting quietly, minding their own business, suddenly began gyrating. They gave no warning. The unexpected dust devils became even bigger hazards than the unexpected head-on bicycle traffic. It was like riding into a sandstorm. I closed my eyes, praying that a broom seller didn’t appear when I opened them again.

Miraculously, I made it to the bicycle’s true home unscathed, minutes before the rain broke. My dreams of bicycle commuting, however, had suffered a severe setback.

Brits vs. Yanks

Even though this time the World Cup isn’t being played on the same continent as Thailand, and even though the games begin pretty late for people who work a regular day, everyone still seems to be fully informed on the morning after. I haven’t been hard core enough to stay up for the games that finish here shortly before the sun comes up.

With one exception. An invitation to join the lads from the old mans’ soccer league was too good to pass up. The match was of course the U.S. vs. England. The place was the Londoner Pub. At our table were four Yanks, two Thais, and a Turk who had gone to college in Louisiana. We were surrounded by about fifteen big screens and five hundred Englishmen. The owner’s son stopped by our table to offer his condolences. He also guaranteed us a protective escort in case the unthinkable happened, and the English side lost. At least that’s what I think he said. His voice got lost amidst the drinking songs, which became progressively louder as kickoff approached.

Technically Bangkok pubs aren’t supposed to serve alcohol after 2am. For this occasion the rules were skirted by requiring that everyone buy drink coupons before 12:30, followed by an announcement at 1am that the pub was officially closed. Nobody left the premises, of course. The event had simply become a “private party” at that point, no longer admitting new “guests.” I gather that at various watering holes around the city, beer after 2am is poured from tea kettles into teacups as another way around the regulations.

Probably you already know about the English captain’s nifty goal in the first five minutes of the match (pandemonium at the Londoner Pub) and the English goalkeeper’s “Hand of Clod” howler that evened the score (shocked silence, followed by a teenybopper-style scream from an excited American fan who was taking a big risk). From that point on, all of us at our table pulled our heads a little lower between our shoulder blades and sent up prayers (answered, thank god) that Wayne Rooney wouldn’t upset the delicate sense of cease-fire that had descended upon the room.

“Dying for a tie” described both nationalities, though each group meant something different by the phrase. The Brits appeared to have collectively lost years off the end of their lives. Meanwhile Yanks were thinking that the final whistle couldn’t come soon enough.

In the end we all made it out of the pub alive.

Summer School

For a while it seemed that everybody here was either really agitated or really depressed about Thailand’s troubles. Around that time, the middle of last month, when things were at their most explosive and the international press was updating standoff stories every few hours, the U.S. Embassy offered to evacuate employees’ family members.

Nobody I know was nervous enough about the situation to accept the offer, which expired today. I did hear a rumor that some international school kids, at risk of failing their finals, had successfully begged their parents to send them away. The program, known in official State Dept.-ese as “Authorized Departure,” demands that the evacuees return immediately after the offer expires. Pity the students who thought they were off the hook. Sounds like their plans for the rest of the month now include summer school.

Generally speaking things are again calm, at least on the surface. A curfew that lasted about ten days, and got progressively shorter as time went on, has now ended (though a state of emergency is still in force). The newspapers are now dominated by stories about politicians talking to one another rather than communicating through the press or via speeches.

Of course it’s just a lull in the action. No doubt a nasty plot is being hatched somewhere out of sight, and cells of people with narrow agendas are regrouping, and the military is scripting its reactions for what to do when the elections don’t turn out right.

Let us pray that all of the leaders associated with the recent conflicts also spend some time in summer school. The craziness of the past few months turns out not to be unique in Thai history. Dead ends, snipers, even arson on a grand scale have all appeared before in the long-running drama soap opera that is politics here.

Thus far I’m not convinced that the lessons of the earlier episodes have been absorbed. Last week Thaksin was formally accused of supporting terrorism, a decision that seems to play right into the hands of his well-paid spin-doctor squad. Coming up are debates about the current flawed constitution, and about lifting the ban on participating in politics for more than 100 members of dissolved parties. Compromise on those controversies will be much tougher now than they might have been before recent events, but looking back at the many examples in Thai history of following the middle way may help move things forward this time.

On a positive note, more than 10,000 volunteers, most of them young, turned out last weekend for a city-sponsored clean-up of the protest sites. Perhaps if the people lead, the leaders will follow?