Postcards from Thailand

There is a story, apocryphal, that the French at Agincourt had a propensity for cutting off the index and middle fingers of English and Welsh archers so they could never again draw a bow. In defiance the plucky Brits raised a V-sign to their opponents.

Warmonger Churchill subverted and inverted this sign to symbolise “Victory”, rather than the obscene meaning it had acquired in the UK, though in much of the world there’s no distinction drawn between the two forms. Both are victory.

The Japanese (and other Asian groups) like to hold up a pair of fingers whilst being photographed. Sometimes they’ll hold them up behind the head of a companion as “rabbit ears”.

The index finger is, of course, a miracle of evolution. It’s perfectly sized for the excavation of nasal orifices. To sit there, finger up nostril, whilst taboo in the West, is an every day feature of life here in Thailand; there’s no stigma here.

The Americans, not overly keen on raising two fingers to the world, have reduced the gesture to a single raised middle finger.

Curiously enough, the middle finger in Thailand has a similarly taboo value. To me, if I want to point to an item on, say, a menu, it makes sense to use the longest finger. It’s the pointiest, and requires least effort to deploy. However, its use will also cause offence. More than once have I been chastised for my deployment of my middle digit.

Whilst I may, from time to time, want to stick two fingers up to the world, for as long as I’m in Thailand, I’ll have to settle for the index finger alone.

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I find it pretty outrageous that the cost of a new passport in Thailand is almost double the equivalent of the same passport in the UK.

32 page adult passport (UK) – £77.50
32 page adult passport (TH) – 6,656 Baht (£142.31 at current exchange rates)

It’s not as if I receive any special services from the British Embassy in Bangkok. Neither do they invite me to cocktail parties, nor provide informed information about the current political situation. (These are things that the Australian and US embassies have both done for me over the years.) They do nothing.

And now, to add insult to injury, passport renewals are now handled by Hong Kong, and the applicant is expected to fork out the fee for couriering the passports from Thailand to Hong Kong – a further 962 Baht, or £20.60.

So, in short, you can get a passport in the UK for £77.50, but if you choose to live in Thailand you have to pay £162.91.

And to make things worse, the process can take up to 4 weeks (providing that all the paperwork is in order and that your passport photograph meets their ludicrously exacting standards). Yet in Thailand it’s a legal requirement that you carry your passport at all times. There’s a stiff fine (or bribe) involved if you’re not carrying that precious booklet.

Such is the curse of being born British.

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The full moon hung low in the deep black sky. I slowly drove down a narrow, unlit lane next to paddy fields, doing my best not to strike any of the multitude of feral dogs which inhabit this part of town. After a few minutes I reached my destination: Wat Ayotthaya, my regular temple. It’s an ancient place, with a large but crumbling chedi behind the ubosot (ordination hall). It’s not a rich temple, and there are usually only about a dozen monks in residence at any one time.

As I drew into the car park I could hear the sound of chanting over the tannoy system. A group of about a hundred worshippers was hanging around outside the ubosot. I approached a small stall, put a donation in the box there and picked up a lotus stem, three incense sticks and a thin candle.

After a few minutes the chanting stopped and the monks emerged from the ubosot. One addressed the crowd and welcomed them. The monks then approached a large, yellow candle outside the temple and lit their incense sticks and candles. The laity then followed suit. The evening breeze quickly extinguished many of the candles. A few kids took transparent plastic cups and punched a hole in the bottom to make improvised shields for their candles.

An elderly monk approached me and briefly asked me where I was from, and thanked me for coming.

Pressing the flower, incense sticks and (now extinguished) candle between my palms I followed the procession headed by the monks. The tannoy now carried a taped chant in a loop. We made our way, barefooted and silent, around the ubosot three times.

The procession complete, the monks and the worshippers relit their candles and placed them on a special stand, planted their incense sticks in a large bowl of sand, and laid their lotus stems in another large bowl. The ceremony of “Wian Tian” (circle with candles), held on the full moon day of the third lunar month, was over for another year.

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I decided towards the end of last year that I wanted to move. The house I’m living in is getting increasingly run down, and the new neighbours are truly neighbours from hell. I also decided that I wanted to move to Bangkok – closer to supermarkets that stock Western foods and with cinemas that show films in English. However, I don’t like living in large cities, so I needed to find a house in a moobaan on the fringes of the city. Thanks to the wonders of the Interweb I was fairly readily able to come up with a shortlist. Next was to spend a day visiting the likely suspects.

The first moobaan I visited was in a strange location. To explain: many main roads in Thailand have smaller roads running parallel to them on both sides (known as “frontage roads) for local traffic. Often these roads are one-way. This moobaan was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields and small villages, off such a one-way frontage road. To get onto the frontage road I had a nightmarish drive through a series of complex junctions in very heavy traffic.

At the sales office I was greeted with a cold drink and there was some discussion about the type of house I wanted. Then it was onto an electric cart to view a few houses in various stages of development. None of them was quite what I wanted. (I was particularly keen to have a bedroom to use as a study since I spend way too much time in front of the computer.) The sales agent then suggested a house type that wasn’t on the website. And it was cheaper than the two house types I’d short-listed. It had a downstairs study – perfect.

The moobaan was quite attractive. The gardens of the completed properties were very pretty. The roads curved and the properties were varied so the place didn’t look too regimented.

The next moobaan I visited wasn’t right for me. None of the properties was quite large enough, though on the plus side it had a communal gym and a clubhouse.

The visit to the third moobaan started with a shock: there was a kerfuffle amongst the security guards at the gatehouse: there was an enormous (and I’m told poisonous) snake which soon slithered off into the gutter.

I must say, I loved the setting. I could have had a house overlooking a large pond (and I love living close to water). However, the study was pretty small, and the developer very inflexible. (This particular developer is Thailand’s largest, so can do as it likes.)

All the houses I looked at had features in common, such as lots of windows (I’m going to spend a small fortune on window treatments) and tiny, inconvenient kitchens. Rather than usual cabinets, the work surfaces are Thai-style, made of concrete, tiled. And there’s nowhere for an oven.

To be more precise, each property had two kitchens (both tiny): an outer kitchen for preparing food, then an inner one (with good ventilation) for the actual cooking. (The toxic fumes released by frying garlic and chillies together is quite overwhelming.)

Something for me slightly strange was that you were expected to keep your washing machine outside. What’s to stop the neighbours climbing over the fence and using your washing machine whilst you sleep?

Anyway, a week later I was back at the first moobaan paying a reservation fee for a house that will be completed at the end of May. (Thai builders, unlike British ones, do actually complete on time, so I’m told.)

When finished the house will look something like this (minus the large garden):

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The metal feels cold against my hand as I slide open the gate. The street lights harshly illumine the deserted street. As I shut the car door the dull thud breaks the early morning silence. A dog barks. And as I drive I can hear the dull rumble of tyres against the rough concrete.

As I pull out onto the main road I can faintly make out the flooded paddy fields on the far side. There hundreds of ducks sit on the low mud banks that partition the field. They weren’t here yesterday, and they won’t be here tomorrow. They’re simply taking a break as they fly south from Cathay to warmer climes. Later they’ll dabble in the shallow waters for insects and fish before heading on their way. I pause to envy them: a break in life; a respite from the daily round; and the certainty of better to come.

I pass the Old Man’s shop. Outside are stacked carboys of water and tanks of gas for sale. I can make out the outlines of the Old Man and his wife faintly illuminated by a single light bulb as they sit, stooped eating their breakfast from bowls, not talking; it’s not a tight, difficult silence, rather a relaxed companionship brought on by half a century of familiarity. There is nothing more to say, and nothing more that needs to be said.

I see orange-robed monks padding, bare-foot against the chilly ground, clutching their alms bowls tightly to their chests. A few women wait patiently to place their offerings in an alms bowl. They kneel behind low wooden tables bearing bags of rice and curry. A monk quietly recites a prayer in return for that which is proffered then moves silently on. This is as it has been for the last two and a half thousand years – a symbiosis between the sacred and the secular, between those set apart and those who remain.

Beyond is the modern: a convenience store that never shuts. The harsh light from its bright fluorescent tubes spills out onto the road. A gaggle of young men with motorcycles is encompassed by the blaze.

The railway station disgorges its passengers into the street: factory workers, students. Some climb into waiting tuk-tuks or onto the backs of motorcycle taxis, but most take a place on the back of one of the old, rusty songthaews that ply their regular routes around town. Others cross the street to the small market that clings to the side of the road to break their fast on rice soup, grilled chicken or one of a myriad of fragrant delights. I can smell the smoke, the spices and the burning fat from the braziers, see the steam rising from the bubbling aluminium pots. Mingled with the crowd are a few monks, their sacred orange flashing bright in the early morning light.

And on.

The sun is now low in the sky, a red disk suspended above the horizon. A band of mist hovers above the paddy fields. Soon light will flood the earth and a new winter’s day will begin.

[433]

The Thai Insurance Company has a TV advert that has created a lot of discussion here over the last few weeks. It features children from Srisangwan School (a school for children with special needs, and a project of the late Princess Mother Somdej Phra Sri Nakharindra Boromaraj Chonni) singing Que Será, Será a song originally made famous by Doris Day back in the mid-50s.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlfPY8lzwMk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&]

Quite possibly the advert is exploitative, but it definitely has a strong emotional effect, too. Note the joy on the faces of the children and the pride on those of the parents. This deserves a wider audience.

[429]

Just got home. Undid the padlock on the gate. Then looked down. Just centimeters from my fingers, wrapped around the bracket of the lock, was a snake. I was, to put it mildly, a little taken aback.

Here’s a not very good photo of the poisonous critter. By the time I’d positioned myself for a second shot he’d scarpered.

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The restaurant I visit more often than any other in Ayutthaya is called “Sai Tong” (ไทรทอง) , which means “large banyan tree”. In the centre of the establishment is, indeed, an enormous banyan tree. These trees are considered sacred, and under their branches is considered a suitable place to dispose of old spirit houses. Like most banyan trees here in Thailand, there are bands of coloured fabric tied around its trunk. There’s also a small altar for offerings of food and drink to the spirits which live in the tree.

The restaurant is next to the Chao Phraya river, close to a ferry which takes passengers and motorbikes across the river for a few tical a time.

Today the river was exceptionally high, with water lapping at the lawn of the temple opposite. The remnants of a tropical storm have brought heavy rain to the north, and that water is now making its way down to the sea. As is government policy, the land around Ayutthaya is being flooded to protect Bangkok. The local farmers don’t like this, but there’s nothing they can do. And the government does pay some compensation for the lost crops.

The sky is overcast. There’s a light breeze. And the flags in a row outside the temple make desultory attempts at fluttering before giving the task up as in vain.

When I arrived there was one other table occupied by a group of four. However, there’s a long table set out. I surmised it was for a group of teachers or bank workers. But I was wrong.

I’m glad I arrived before the big group, since such groups put a great strain on the kitchen, and I might have had to wait too long for my lunch.

Then the group arrives. They’re tourists, Americans in their 50s and 60s. They’re clearly excited to be in Thailand and everything around them fills them with awe.

I watch with a feeling of trepidation as they sit down to dine. The plastic chairs, which in the West would be considered cheap, outdoors furniture, might be unable to bear the weight of these portly visitors.

Not that they stayed seated for long. After a few moments many of them were up and wandering around the restaurant. It felt as if I were dining in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. I was not exactly thrilled.

And, oh, they were all so loud!

Madam, I’m not interested in how you feel you should sit at the end of the table because you’re left-handed.

Sir, yes, you do take a little food from the communal dishes and put it on your plate.

And yes, you can have a small bowl of fish sauce laced with potent chillies (even though it’s totally inappropriate for the sweet, Chinese-derived food that has been set in front of you, and nobody is remotely interested in your attempt at demonstrating machismo by partaking of more chillies than anyone else).

(The guide had done a good job of ordering the least-challenging food items on the menu for her charges – nothing too spicy, nothing too interesting. Of course, the fried rice has to be served in a hollowed-out pineapple – that’s what tourists like – and the meat comes on a hot metal pan, just like one gets at ethnic restaurants back home. Chinese, Thai, Korean – they’re all the same, aren’t they?)

And no, Sir, you can’t get a discount on the bottle of beer you’ve ordered because you don’t want the bottle of water that’s included in the set price. Do you realise how much of a cheapskate you appear to be? You want to save 25 cents?

***

I’m sure these were good people, thrilled to be visiting a country strange and exotic to them. I’m happy they were enjoying themselves so much. And I wish I didn’t feel so curmudgeonly. But as it was, I couldn’t leave the restaurant fast enough.

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Though Ayutthaya probably has hundreds of eating places I tend to frequent but a handful of them. However, I’m always on the lookout for new recommendations. One such recommendation was a restaurant by the name of “Shogun”, just across from one of my regular haunts. Apparently it’s held in high esteem by a large number of foreigners working in Ayutthaya (which, as it turns out, sadly reflects upon the palates of the aforementioned workers).

It’s a fairly simple place, with a few tacky pieces of Japanalia helping one realise that this is notionally a Japanese restaurant, though any restaurant in Japan serving such execrable sushi would have gone out of business long ago and the owner driven to seppuku. The rice was woefully overcooked and mushy, and the fish sliced to a parsimonious thinness. The eel in some of my pieces of sushi was still frozen. And whilst in some parts of the world frozen eel sushi might be appreciated as a delicacy, it’s definitely not when it’s on my plate.

The main course featured the restaurant’s other speciality: steaks. That said, I’m not sure that it would be fair to call the thin sliver of pork meat hiding under an over-salty black pepper sauce a “steak”. As is the custom in such fine dining establishments the dish was accompanied by a few cold french fries and a triangle of toast smeared with marge.

Rarely have I had such a hard time keeping a straight face whilst dining; the experience was so pathetic as to be laughable.

[402]

The neighbours are having a party – not that I’ve been invited. How do I know? Well, the first clue was last night with a motley group of labourers erecting a canopy in the front garden and tying swags of blue and gold cloth to the front railings. And now the whole house is shaking to the heavy thump of over-amplified music – and I use the term “music” only loosely. If I didn’t know about the party I’d be tempted to call the RSPCA suspecting gross cruelty to cats – or even cruelty to a gross of cats. It’s only midday, so I can look forward to several more hours with the doors and windows clamped shut, stifling in the heat, and struggling to hear the TV.

***

At one o’clock I headed out to lunch at a riverside restaurant. I see that a giant bank of loudspeakers has been erected not in the garden of the party family, but on the opposite side of the street in the road. In the garden there are three middle-aged women lounging around. All this racket is, so far, solely for their benefit.

***

At the restaurant I see a floating platform, the sort used to ferry cars across rivers, accompanied by four barges, one to each side, one in front and one bringing up the rear heading up the river. The vessels are packed with party goers. Then I remembered, we’re just about to enter the rainy season retreat when young men traditionally enter the monkhood for three months to make merit, often for their mother or grandmothers. It’s a source of great pride for each family concerned and is often marked by an extravagant party. On the way back home I spy a number of other parties in progress.

***

7 p.m. the party next door is still in full swing. The street is clogged with parked cars. The first couple of restaurants I visit are packed with groups celebrating. I head elsewhere.

***

Midnight. The music has stopped.

Under other circumstances I might feel a little miffed by the intrusive noise, but I understand that this is a very special day for the young men and the families concerned. Let them have their fun.

***

Sunday, 5 a.m.. They’re back to strangling cats. I’m woken abruptly by a song calling on all to wake up and start working. I resist that siren call and struggle to regain oblivion.

***

11 a.m.. Now someone is reciting the life story of the young man concerned. After an hour they’ve only reached the day of his birth. It’s going to be a long, long tale. I also now understand that they will be partying until he goes to the temple tomorrow (Monday) morning, in time for lunch (the last meal of the day for monks) which is taken before midday.

***

4 p.m. and the music throbs on. In fact, the volume’s so loud that it’s taken to setting off the alarms of the cars in the vicinity. I’m just glad that I’m now returning to Bangkok and will flee the ongoing cacophony. The other neighbours have to put up with this until some time tomorrow.

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