Postcards from Thailand

Generally, dogs have a pretty miserable time in Thailand. All too often a family will buy a cute puppy and after a few months abandon it at the local temple (if it’s lucky) or on the street. Either the puppy has lost its cuteness, or it’s developed some sort of behavioural problem. Dog training isn’t the norm here. There’s no “sit” or “heel”. They do what they want. In Ayutthaya the family opposite had three dogs that would bark pretty well non-stop throughout the day, set off by anything that moved. The family, apparently, thought that was OK.

In Ayutthaya there are dozens of dogs by the railway station. People take them off the island, thinking that the dog won’t be able to find its way back home across the bridge. Many of these dogs are in an atrocious state – mangy, scabby and scarred, often with broken limbs. There are people who think nothing of beating them with wooden sticks or pouring hot oil over them. It’s heartbreaking. The dogs are rarely starving, though. Kind people put out food for them – I guess it’s a kind of merit-making. (I believe there’s a Thai tradition that naughty temple boys will be rebirthed as dogs.) The food is usually mostly rice. Not the best of diets for a dog, but it keeps them alive. It also keeps them docile; it tends to be the starving strays that are aggressive.

There’s nothing I can do to solve the problem of Thailand’s street dogs, but I can do something, and that starts today. Meet Whisky:

He was born a couple of months ago to one of Bangkok’s street dogs, one of a litter of seven. He was found, with the rest of the litter, living close to a busy expressway. From today he’s got a new home, living with me.

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Today I went shopping for a fan. I walked away from Tesco-Lotus with what the manufacturer calls an “oscillation air circulator”. Call a spade a manually operated earth-moving implement, why don’t you?

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A few months before I left Ayutthaya a family moved in next door – a grossly fat Dutchman and his foul-mouthed Thai wife. The Dutchman had a penchant for sitting outside his house shirtless. The sight of his hairy, pendulous belly was enough to make anyone wretch. He’d then drink beer to ensure there was no danger of his hirsute pride-and-joy would shrink to more natural proportions.

His wife was equally repulsive. I’m guessing from her language and demeanour that she’s a former prostitute and that’s how he met her. (And, how shall I put it? I somehow doubt she married him for his good looks and charm.) Anyway, these two and their family made my life a misery.

Almost the first thing they did on moving in was to put up a large screen made of green plastic sacking which obstructed the view from my front door. It looked so cheap and vile (much like the family).

Then they installed a massive satellite dish immediately outside my landing window.

Then the building work started. They extended the house at the back, putting in a new kitchen, to one side (fortunately the side away from my house) and at the front. The building work went on for weeks and was hardly quiet. But then, neither were the youths who used their front drive as a makeshift motorcycle garage late into the night.

Once the building work finished they started on the front garden and turned it into a water feature resembling nothing so much as a public urinal. Once finished they’d leave the water running all day just to ensure that their annoying noises were incessant. (Of course, they shut all their windows so they couldn’t hear the torrent.) I’d hate to think the state I’d be in if I had a bladder problem.

Their offensiveness wasn’t limited to sight and sound. On occasion the fat Dutchman would park his pickup truck outside my gate so I could neither leave nor enter. I’d end up blowing my car horn for a good few minutes before he’d deign to appear and move his vehicle. Never an apology forthcoming from him, though, for the inconvenience caused.

There’s more – lots more – but I don’t think writing about it is too good for my blood pressure.

Anyway, in my new place the neighbours behind have managed to prove a tad inconsiderate even before they’ve moved it. This was the view from my dining area when I opened the blinds late this morning.

(Just to clarify, the breeze block wall wasn’t there last night.)

Room with a view? Don’t count on it – not in Thailand.

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Billie Joe Armstrong may have imprecated us to “live without warning”, but there comes a time when I feel I must warn the world of a terrible, terrible danger.

Now, I’m not one much for high-end toiletries, though I do love my L’Occitane en Provence Citrus Verbena Shampoo and rather wish that I had enough hair to warrant buying the corresponding conditioner. I also love my Kiehls Ultimate Man Body Scrub Soap – quite possibly the best soap in the world. That said, I still love my Boots Amazon Forest Brazil Nut and Vanilla Shower Gel too – it smells just like being in a wonderful bakery. However, one high end product I recently tried has proved a bit of a disappointment. It’s Lab Series Maximum Comfort Shave Cream. It claims its “advanced formula softens and prepares beard for a close and comfortable shave. Rich, concentrated texture allows for excellent razor glide and protection.” Does it heck as like! Each time I use it my face ends up looking like it’s had an overly close encounter with Freddy Krueger. To make things worse its “patented formula system provides immediate relief of irritation and stinging” really means that it numbs your skin so that you don’t realise that you’re slashing yourself to shreds until you notice the blood torrenting down your face. This has to be one of the worst shaving products ever! Avoid!!! As for me, the tube is going in the bin, and I’m going back to my cheap and cheerful Nivea Shaving Foam.

Picture provided for warning purposes only.

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There are a myriad of tiny differences between countries, even when it comes to what goes on in supermarket car parks. For example, in England most people dutifully take their trolleys to the appointed spot. Anyone who doesn’t faces a disapproving stare, or even a stern tutting from any onlooker. In Thailand – where nobody walks even a few feet if they don’t have to – trolleys are simply left where they are. Someone will be along soon to collect it.

In England I wouldn’t dream of driving other than along the prescribed route, religiously following the painted arrows on the ground. Here in Thailand those arrows are seen as merely advisory, and I think nothing of driving the wrong way, provided the car park isn’t too busy.

And people here don’t drive forward into a parking space, they reverse – which makes it easy to spot my car in a car park: it’ll be the only one pointing the wrong way.

There is one thing the Thais do that riles me: they will park their car in front of yours, leaving it in neutral so you can roll it aside to exit – though sometimes it’s a whole row of cars that needs to be shifted. This doesn’t only happen when the car park is full; even if the car park is virtually empty someone will park blocking your exit to save walking an extra ten paces to the store. And almost invariably it will be the dirtiest of cars that does this, so your hands are left grimy for the trip home. Still, it saved the driver walking a few paces, so it’s worth it.

***

The’ll now be a short break in my random ramblings. Normal service will be resumed at the end of the month.

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Sansiri (the developer of the moobaan where I live) has removed the hanging debris from the billboard advertising the development. What is left bears a striking resemblance to a certain popular sculpture. As they say in Private Eye, could they possibly be related?

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Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne
And smale foweles maken melodye

I suspect that from a meteorological point of view Chaucer was the Michael Fish of his day. But let me begin at the beginning.

Yesterday was a fine day, a little overcast, but no sign of impending rain. I put a load of washing in the washing machine (which resides outside), and an hour later put the laundry out to dry. I then summoned a taxi and headed off to central Bangkok for a bit of kultcha, for this was the day of the concert by the Bangkok Symphony Orchestra.

I’ve known for a while know that Bangkok boasts a symphony orchestra, but, to be honest, I’d assumed it was largely an affair of talented amateurs. But no! It’s a full time, professional orchestra.

***

Before the concert I had dinner with G.. We wandered around a shopping centre for somewhere to eat, and eventually plumped for a Chinese place – a small, simple, concrete shell decorated with cheap paper lanterns and little else. The omen were propitious, with several men (already a little drunk on rice spirit at six in the afternoon) talking loudly in Teochew. The food was good and filling, if not sensational, and the portions were generous: deep fried tofu stuffed with minced pork, hot and sour soup, and Peking duck with all the trimmings. Finishing dinner a little early, we decided that a brief sojourn at a traditional local coffee shop trading under the name of “Starbucks” was in order. One green tea latte frappuccino served, we were ready to head on. And then the heavens opened – a tropical storm, whipped horizontal by the wind. Twenty minutes before the conductor picked up his baton, we had no option but to brave the elements and scuttle to the concert hall.

***

Two sodden rats sat down twenty minutes later, ready for Weber, Mozart and Tchaikovsky – though somewhat less ready for the effect of the freezing air-con upon their chilly cladding.

The concert was a pretty good stab at some challenging works. There was some hesitancy in attack in some of the string sections, the French horns split their notes a few times in Tchaikovsky 4, and I didn’t like the tone of the clarinets – too woolly. Somewhat bizarrely, for me the star performer was the only member of the orchestra who doesn’t have a Thai name – Daisuke Iwabuchi, the Timpanist – I presume he’s Japanese. His precise, sensitive playing really stood out for me. More generally, the whole percussion section was excellent.

Of course, I should mention the soloist, Cho-Liang Lin, a Taiwanese-American violinist who scratches a mean Stradivarius. The richness of the tone of the lower strings was particularly magnificent. He makes a lot of what is obviously a very fine fiddle.

***

After the concert I took a taxi home. The driver drove with a certain reckless abandon, but by this stage I just wanted to get home to take off my sodden clothing and, in particular, my soaked through shoes and socks.

An hour or so later the driver was approaching my moobaan – but there was a barrier in the way. It seems a major power line had fallen across the road. In normal circumstances this wouldn’t been too much of a problem, but I live off a one way road with no other entrance.

After a bit of head scratching it was agreed the driver would head for the opposite end of the one way road and drive up it the wrong way. (The concepts of “legal” and “illegal” in Thailand tend to be a little nebulous.) Twenty minutes (and a generous tip to the driver) I was home. Time to check the laundry…

As I’d feared, all my freshly laundered clothes were scattered across the ground; the waterproof cover over the washing machine had been ripped off by the aeolian breezes, too, despite being anchored by hefty cables.

***

This morning I resolved boldly to venture forth, bread and milk to buy. Whilst the destruction was hardly post-apocalyptic, it was striking. Here’s the sign at the entrance to my moobaan.

Doesn’t look too bad? Here it is from a different angle.

(Michael Bay, if you’re going to steal this idea for your next Transformers movie, I will sue.)

And some trees are now relaxing taking a well-deserved rest:

Whilst others are simply slanting at jaunty angles.

[The above engraved etchings are courtesy of mine mobile telephone, so may not be up to my usual (and thoroughly mediocre) standards.]

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