Postcards from Thailand

I’m sitting in the waiting area of a local hospital. All of life is here. There’s the toddler with her hair in a pair of bunches, with shoes which squeak with her every step. There’s a pair of schoolboys with their brown shorts, brown, calf-length socks and brown canvas shoes. There’s the middle-aged woman standing at a payphone talking urgently, with hushed tones to some anonymous recipient. There’s the baby with spiky hair in his mother’s arms. There’s an elderly woman lying on her side comatose, covered in a blanket being pushed from somewhere to somewhere else. And out of sight in the Emergency Room is a good friend of mine.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

This weekend G, a friend from Bangkok, came to visit me. It was a joyful weekend. He’d just become an uncle for the first time on the Saturday morning and was excited about that. We talked for hours about this and that, about everything and nothing. On the Monday morning we both woke at the ungodly hour of 5:45 so that he could drive to work and I could lock the gate behind him after he left. Ten minutes later I was watching the BBC news on TV and starting on my bowl of muesli when there was a ‘phone call. It was G. My first thought was that he’d accidentally left something behind. But no. He said he’d been in a serious car accident, and would I come?

I drove as fast as I could to get there, but wasn’t prepared for what I saw: there were some long skid marks, a trail of debris, a stream of brake fluid, and his white pick-up truck on its side, facing the wrong way in the fast lane of the Asia Highway. There were also three other vehicles, Emergency Medical Services. Two had arrived following a ‘phone call from someone who’d seen the accident, though the first on site had been passing by chance.

Thailand doesn’t have a national ambulance service. Rather, groups of (mostly) volunteers respond to accidents. They do it to gain merit according to Buddhist philosophy. They also get money from the hospitals to which they deliver their accident victims. So fierce is the competition for accident victims in some parts of the country that if members of two different groups arrive at the same time there can be fisticuffs, or worse, for the right to help the victim.

In accordance with Thai law one mustn’t move any vehicle involved in an accident until the scene has been inspected, either by the police, or (more usually) by the insurance company’s agent. G was standing next to his pick-up waiting for both. At least he wasn’t visibly injured.

I risked life and limb to dash across four lanes of the Asia Highway to reach the central reservation. There G told me what had happened: he’d been driving along in the third lane at a moderate speed when he was rammed from behind by another vehicle. He then skidded and hit the concrete barrier of the central reservation, upon which his vehicle flipped on its side and slid a further 20 metres or so down the carriageway. Then his pick-up was hit by another fast-moving vehicle. He couldn’t open the passenger side door, but was able to wind down the window, so he’d hauled himself up through it and out of the pick-up, leaving his shoes behind in the process; he was standing at the roadside in just his socks. The vehicle which hit him didn’t stop. Why? Perhaps the driver was drunk. Perhaps he didn’t have insurance. Perhaps he didn’t have a driving licence. Quite possibly, all three.

After a long wait for the police and the insurance agent G decided to abandon the wait, leaving the scene in the hands of the Emergency Medical Service team, and I drove him to the nearest hospital.

And now I sit, waiting, pondering the frailty of life.

***

Fortunately, G wasn’t too badly injured – lots of bruising and muscle pains, but the X-ray revealed nothing broken. He was able to walk out of the hospital clutching a bag with a rainbow assortment of different pills.

[328]

There’s been a long-running security problem in the south. Almost every day there is a report of murder. The protagonists are either Moslem freedom fighters or straightforward criminals, depending upon your point of view. However, today’s murder report was even more horrific than the usual tales of poor Buddhist farmers being decapitated or villagers being blown up at the market.Insurgents shot a Moslem man who was suspected of cooperating with the authorities. They then attempted to cut off his head. They then drove six inch nails into his arms, legs and head in an attempt to crucify him. He was left, attached to his cross in the middle of a road.

And for kicks, these insurgents then kidnapped two Buddhist fishmongers and decapitated them.

Sometimes I wish I weren’t human; I have nothing in common with these monsters.

[301]

Last Saturday was the full moon day of the 12th lunar month, or Loi Krathong, which literally means “launch krathong” – not that that helps much. A krathong is a small, lotus-shaped vessel made out of banana leaf and decorated with flowers, a candle, three incense sticks, a coin and hair and nail clippings.The weather has changed. It’s now cool and breezy. The rains have finished, and the water levels are high. It’s the start of a new year, and time to let go of the past. As one watches one’s krathong float into the distance, it takes one’s sins and bad luck with it.

My krathong (image below) was made by the mother of a friend, but there are plenty of roadside stalls selling them if you don’t want to make your own. Often, the base is now made of styrofoam, which is less than ecologically friendly, so some shops sell bread krathong, which give you extra merit as the fish eat the bread.

Loi Krathong also a time for partying. The streets were clogged with youngsters on their motorbikes. Big fairs were set up on almost any piece of vacant ground. The river banks were crowded with revellers.

Unfortunately, every year the high jinks results in deaths. This year a truck slammed into a motorbike and side car, killing seven villagers, including two elderly people and a four year old girl. The newspapers poignantly report that the victims’ krathongs were found scattered around the scene. Another truck hit three people on a motorbike, killing them all. The driver fled the scene.
Elsewhere a violent brawl ended in one death; the victim was shot. And Tomoko, a female Japanese tourist, was murdered, her throat slit and belongings stolen.

Beauty and brutality, all on one day.

[300]

Today I witnessed a re-enactment of the Ghostbusters film. Three men clutching metal canisters of poison arrived at my home and proceeded to pump their lethal gift into every nook and cranny,

I’ve been waiting for this for months, if not years. The first evidence of termite activity was a couple of years ago, with just a few traces in the bathroom. My landlord reckoned that a can of insecticide was the solution. They subsequently spread to the kitchen, bar area and my bedroom. About a month ago they launched a major assault on the bathroom ceiling, driving countless channels through it.

I’d got to a point where I was nervous about opening any cupboard, knowing there was a good chance that I’d be showered in termite sh*t. (They chew wood, then use the faeces to make tunnels through which they can travel without being exposed to light. These tunnels are often along the edges of doors.)

Eventually, about three months ago, my landlord agreed to get a professional exterminator to address the problem. However, nothing happened. It seems that the change of landlord has, at last, prompted action.

The exterminators started outside the house, drilling holes through the concrete border which surrounds the house and injecting poison. (Termites typically have large colonies underground, in sandy soil, and only invade houses during the rainy season – at least, that’s the theory.) More holes were made in pillars which support the house.

Then they came inside, spraying in cupboards, along skirting boards and into cracks in the parquet flooring. They drilled holes in the bathroom ceiling to inject more poison. Areas of the house I’d thought termite-free were revealed to have healthy infestations. The ghostbusters were, undoubtedly, very thorough.

They left after two and a half hours. I’m left with a house reeking of insecticide, with debris lining many of the cupboards, and the sound of agitated termites resounding from various colonies.

Still, it takes my mind of my other concerns.

[276]

My car means I have a new freedom, so I went to Rangsit last weekend to see the Simpsons movie. Most performances were in Thai, but there were three performances a day on the smallest of the 16 screens at the cineplex there. There was just a handful of people in the audience. I just hope the management don’t think that showing films in English is an unprofitable activity.

The movie itself was a bit of a disappointment; it lacked the complexity of the small screen cartoons – that is, not enough references to old movies and obscure cultural phenomena. Still, it passed the time.

I remember when I was a child film presentations in England would start with the National Anthem, and everyone would stand to attention. I’m not quite sure when that tradition was abandoned in the UK, but it still lives in Thailand. Actually, it’s not the National Anthem that is played, but a song about the King – and film of scenes from the King’s life, mostly showing him doing good works, is shown at the same time.

Last Sunday was the Queen’s birthday. This day also serves as Mother’s Day, so the restaurants were packed with families taking their mother out for a special meal. The temples were busy, too, with people making merit (i.e. bringing gifts for the monks) on behalf of their mother or grandmothers. However, that temple of commerce, Tesco-Lotus, was busiest of the lot. The enormous basement car park was full, and cars were parking on a piece of rough ground a little way from the store. Tesco-Lotus had a little shrine to her at the entrance, with her photograph in an elaborate gold frame, pots of flowers and lots of shiny blue cloth (blue being the colour of her birth day). People paid their respects as they entered.

Normally I avoid going to Tesco-Lotus on Bank Holiday weekends., but both fans in my sitting room had died. Still, upon seeing the seething throng, I decided it would be better to swelter at home than face the mêlée.

Fortunately, the weather isn’t too hot at the moment; it’s only getting up to 33 or 34ºC most days. Less fortunately, it’s also raining every day, albeit fairly briefly. The gardeners haven’t called for at least a couple of months, which means that the grass is getting rather long around the edges of the lawn. If it gets much worse I’m going to have to tackle it myself.

[274]

Well, I’ve done something I never thought I would do:  I’ve bought a
new car.  I always thought it was folly to buy something that lost a
third of its value the moment it went on the road.  Still, a little
foolishness can be fun.

I wasn’t expecting the car to arrive at the showroom until next week,
but I got a ‘phone call yesterday morning, asking me to come in the
next day at 9 o’clock with a cashier’s cheque for the balance.

And today, at 9:39 I drove my new Toyota Vios away.

My friend who drove me to the showroom insisted that I leave at a time
ending in the number nine, this being seen as auspicious.

I drove to a nearby garage to get some petrol, then headed home
cautiously.  I’m finding it a little difficult to get out of some of
my motorcycle habits.  For example, I’m turning my head fully around
to look before every manoeuvre, rather than relying on the mirrors.
Funnily enough, I didn’t have this problem on the occasions when I
drove a hire car.

I’m also going to need to be a little careful about the width of the
vehicle.  All those weeks ago when I took a test drive I headed for
the narrow motorcycle lane going into Tesco-Lotus, rather than the car
lane.

I haven’t really explored all the car’s features yet, but this is the
first car I’ve had with air con and central locking and a CD player.
I guess cars have moved on in the twenty years since my last car was
built.

Well, I’m off to Tesco-Lotus now to buy a few of the big things that
I’ve not been able to carry home on my motorcycle.  Jumbo packets of
loo rolls here I come!

[268]

Since watching parts of the Live Earth concert last week I’ve been
more aware of my more profligate uses of energy.  I’ve been more
conscientious about switching off fans and lights when leaving a room
– though the large number of failed light bulbs in the house is more a
consequence of my apathy than of my green warrior credentials.  (My
sitting room alone has 27 light bulbs, so a few dead ones doesn’t
leave me sitting in gloom.)  However, I’m left with a serious
environmental question …

A friend of mine, G., from Bangkok wanted to make merit for his late
father.  That is, he wanted to give goods and a little money to a
local temple.  Some people put together their own collection of items,
but most people buy a ready made present in the form of an orange,
plastic bucket full of things useful to monks.

I picked up G. on the back of my motorbike and went looking for a shop
selling such buckets.  I knew that Tesco-Lotus had a whole aisle
devoted to such gifts, but that seemed a long way to go.  I rode
around town until G. spotted a small textile shop.  Outside was an
woman selling lottery tickets – and there were three orange buckets in
different sizes (and at different costs).

My friend bought a bucket containing toothpaste and brush, a tin of
pilchards, some candles and incense sticks, a bar of soap, and other
essentials of monastic life – all wrapped in cellophane.

We went to a local temple, Wat Maheyong.  It was my choice; I respect
it because it attracts a large number of laity because of the quality
of its meditation teaching.  I felt a bit bad, because my friend
wanted to donate to a smaller temple, and the place was much larger
and busier than I had remembered.  Still, he was gracious and said it
was the gift that mattered, not where it was given.

The temple is a pleasant place, with groves of trees and tranquil
ponds.  Today there were many 8-precept followers dressed in white
robes wandering about, and a handful of monks in saffron.

I held back as G. approached a monk sitting inside an artificial cave.
The monk spent a few moments adjusting his saffron robe, with much
rolling of fabric and tucking of ends.  It was a much more elaborate
process than I’d assumed.  The monk ready, G. then handed over his
basket and put the envelope on a nearby tray.  The monk then chanted
something in Sanskrit or Pali (I wasn’t close enough to hear clearly).
Then there was a brief conversation – mostly G. asking what kind of
gifts were most appreciated.  Apparently there are to many candles –
these are very traditional, but now that the temples are lit by
electricity a cash donation to pay the electric bill would be more
helpful.  And for this temple, there was a particular problem
associated with the large number of lay residents:  whilst monks make
daily alms rounds, the guests don’t, and the monks don’t collect
enough food for the whole community.  Donations of basic foodstuffs
were therefore particularly appreciated.

But the environmental question I’m left with is:  what do they do with
all those orange buckets?

[267]

It was shortly before 4 o’clock.  I was sitting in my favourite bar
sipping an iced latte.  I had an appointment on the other side of
town.  I’d booked a massage.  It’s not something I do very often.  To
be honest, the memory of the pain lingers longer than that of the
pleasure.  Still, there’s a nice, clean place on the edge of the river
where one can be massaged in a sala (open-sided pavilion) that came
highly recommended.  The weather looked ominous.  I was therefore
looking forward to being pummelled whilst torrential rain fell outside
the sala.  There’s something about a heavy downpour that clears the
air and enlivens the spirit.  So, I set off for my treat.

I’d gone two blocks when I hit a police road block.  It was the usual
“get off your motorbike, take off your helmet and look respectful”
thing.  The route had been lined with yellow flags, so I knew it was
the Crown Prince visiting.  (Each member of the senior royal family is
associated with the colour of their birth day – the King and the Crown
Prince were both born on a Monday, so their colour is yellow.)  We
were all kept waiting for a little over quarter of an hour before the
royal convoy arrived.  There were 16 police cars, an ambulance, a
large coach full of gentlemen in uniform, and a number of cars.

When the road block was finally lifted along the length of one of the
major roads which cuts the island in half, 15 minutes’ worth of backed
up traffic surged forward at once.  It was chaotic.  I was trying to
go as fast as feasible, but I was going to be rather late for my
massage.  I was feeling stressed – not the best preparation for
relaxation.

There was no problem with my appointment, but it was moved indoors to
a small, air-conditioned room in a wooden house on account of the
weather.

I was given a well-washed cotton T-shirt and a pair of faux-silk
pantaloons to put on.  It took every atom of self-control that I
possessed not to do my MC Hammer impression (You can’t touch this).

Anyway, the massage started with the masseuse holding a cold, damp
cloth over my face, then gently pressing in various places.  Then the
serious stuff started:  she moved onto my feet.  Here she pressed what
are euphemistically called “pressure points” – “pain points” or, in
some cases, “agony points” would be more accurate.  Then there was the
kneading, and contorting my body into unnatural positions and then
applying further pressure so as to cause maximum discomfort.

Perhaps the most unpleasant part of a traditional Thai massage (at
least for me), is having the masseuse tug on my toes, one by one, to
crack the joints.

Maybe the principle of Thai massage is that it’s like banging one’s
head against a brick wall:  it’s nice when it stops.

And when it stopped I received a hot cup of sweet, strong ginger tea.
Just what was needed to heat the body after the air-con got a little
chilly.

The two hours passed quickly, and I’ll be sure to go back again soon.

[266]

Yesterday was D.’s third birthday, and a small party was held in
her honour. Friends of the family and the neighbours came around
bearing gifts to mark her special day. There was a small cake with
candles, soft drinks and nibbles for the children and beer for the
adults. B. had also made a pot of spaghetti sauce to ladle over
plates of pasta.

So, we sat around for a couple of hours on the house’s small veranda
whilst D. unwrapped her presents – almost all of which seemed to
be made of pink plastic and made in China. On a telegraph pole
opposite the house squatted a white owl, calling into the night.

The party started at 9 p.m., when her father got home from work. To
make ends meet he has two jobs. He teaches English in a state school
about 30 km away. He rides there every morning on his motorbike to
start work at 8 a.m., and finishes work at 4:30 p.m.. He then just
has enough time quickly to shower and change clothes before he starts
his second teaching job from 6 p.m. to 8:30 p.m.. That’s Monday to
Friday. At the weekend he works a further 12 hours. That’s a 67 hour
working week, working 7 days a week, just to be able to support his
family.

It’s not that farang English teachers are paid badly here – they’re
paid about double what their Thai counterparts earn. It’s just that
there are some things it’s difficult to live without, such as the
occasional western-style meal, English DVDs and English language
television. The costs mount quickly. Plus the average farang wants
to have a car, rather then take the family on public transport. And
then there’s the farang surcharge upon almost everything you buy: one
price for the Thais, and one for people with long noses. You can buy
food fresher and cheaper in the market than in Tesco-Lotus, but only
if you’re Thai.

English teachers in other parts of Asia – particularly Vietnam, China
and Japan – are paid vastly more than those working in Thailand. The
real problem is that the Thai government isn’t committed to good
quality education (in any field), and there’s an endless supply of
unqualified backpackers, sex tourists, drug fiends and alcoholics who
will work for very little just to be able to stay here longer term,
and this keeps pay for even well qualified English teachers low.

Of course, if the government rigorously enforced the law requiring all
teachers to have a university degree and a teaching qualification,
standards and pay would go up, but there would be too few teachers
left.

One recent trend, though, has been increasing numbers of Philippine
teachers. English isn’t their native language, but many of them speak
it reasonably well (and infinitely better than the vast majority of
Thai teachers of English). And why this trend? It’s because they’re
cheap – willing to undercut all but the most desperate backpacker.

There’s nothing like a good quality education. And in Thailand, what
the vast majority of students gets is nothing like a good quality
education.

[265]