Evidence of Absence

On the off chance you’ve been hoping I’d write some sort of farewell post about our time in Thailand or Southeast Asia, I’m apologizing to you. We’re back in Minnesota but I’m too depressed or too overwhelmed or too reverse culture-shocked to be able to be able to come up with anything to say.

At the moment I feel like I don’t have anything to say or maybe even that there is nothing to say. Frankly, I’m a miserable git right now. I presume this is a temporary condition and that in time something approaching my usual self will return. Maybe he will have something to say.

In the meantime, as he has at so many points in my life, Pee Wee Herman has found a way to express my feelings when I cannot.

Grenade Go... Boom?

If you are like me—at least in this one small way—the first time you heard gunfire in real life you were disappointed. In movies guns sound menacing. The bass heavy impression of movie gunfire is the bark is only slightly less fearsome than the bite. In reality gunfire is more treble than bass, more pop than BOOM because it sounds like what it is: firecrackers configured to propel a projectile. I've only heard the sound of small-caliber guns—pistols, rifles, shotguns—so maybe it's different with AK-47s and M16s, but I doubt those sound like the movies either. Theatrical gunfire invokes the wrath of gods but real gunfire is encased in a tube the size of my middle finger. That's just not enough room to stuff a god into.

Before last Friday night I had never pondered the perception vs. reality of grenades. I know even less about about them than guns. I've never seen a grenade in real life and they're less prominent in movies and TV shows. The extent of my knowledge is pretty much limited to knowing that some grenades look pineapples and others don't. Are there different "caliber" grenades, so to speak? I don't know but I assume so. The one thing I can tell you about grenades from firsthand experience is they sound nothing like guns.

On Friday Spectra and I were on our way to eat a vegetarian restaurant in the Rama 9 neighborhood. We took the MRT (subway) to the Rama 9 station and then walked a kilometer to Anothai. We'd never walked through that neighborhood before so there was some starting, stopping, and the occasional pause to consult phones. All totally normal.

We were walking along a big street, like 6 lanes, with heavy traffic. There were people sitting on the sidewalks eating. Big construction projects on both sides of the streets. A skyscraper shaped like a G (I can't remember why a G) was under construction. This is typical Bangkok. Behind us there was an atypical BOOM! I'm talking about the kind of boom that flips your fight-flight switch. It was one notch below a "did I just get struck by lightening" boom. I did not care what made the sound, I did not know how near its source had been, I just wanted to get away from it at a healthy but not panicked pace.

Whatever it was, it was bad and if any people were affected by whatever made the sound it wasn't going to be pretty. After we'd put some space between us and the sound Spectra and I speculated about what it might have been and agreed it was probably something heavy falling from a great height at one of the construction sites. We hoped no one was hurt, ate dinner, walked back along the same route and didn't give it another thought.

The next day Spectra saw a story in the news about what we heard. Someone threw a grenade into the intersection and no one was hurt. Who threw it, why it was thrown, or who/what the target may have been were all unknown. There were a couple of soldiers nearby but that's not saying much around here these days. The type of grenade was not described. It was just a "grenade." That was the end of the story and all I'd add to it is this:

Ladies and gentleman, the sound of "just" a grenade will put the fear of gods in you.

Thailand: land of something, anything other than avocado

I think I mentioned this at some point in the past, but the idea of Thailand as the “Land of Smiles” is overblown. I don’t mean that as an insult. It’s just that the reality is Thai people are human beings and like all human beings they are living lives that are rooted in reality. Some days are good, some bad, and not every moment warrants a smile. Do I encounter more smiles on a daily basis in Thailand than I do in, say, Japan? Of course, but that’s not saying much. This is the land of Thai; not the land of Disney.

While Thailand may not exactly be the land of smiles, it’s absolutely the land of fruit. There’s so much fruit here some of it doesn’t even look like fruit, much less edible. Take a look at this:

Fruit? I thought it was potatoes but it is long-kong. After you peel the skin off this is what you eat:



Does these look edible?



Maybe if you’re a wizard. After you peel rambutan here’s what you’ve got:



I knew lychees existed before I got here but I guess I didn’t know what they really look like:



After peeling this is what you eat:



And then there is durian. Purportedly a fruit, it’s so controversial you’re not allowed to bring it on the metro, in cabs or in our apartment building. I do not have a picture of durian because I won’t get close enough to take one. In short, durian stinks. Spectra tried ordering a durian ice cream once and they wouldn’t sell it to her until she sampled it first. She did not finish the infinitesimal sample scoop. Durian: the fruit so funky they won’t even sell it to you when you ask for it.

I tutor a kid across the street and every time I work with her she sends me home with a bag of fruit. Her name is not Pomelo but that will do. The fruit onslaught is in part because her family knows I’m vegetarian and, as is so often the case with meat eaters, they can’t imagine I eat enough food to be full and healthy. So this fruit attack is their plan to keep my stuffed. It’s appreciated because without their insistence Spectra and I would never have tried many of Thailand’s more alien fruits. Man, I've got to tell you, the fruits above--and many others not pictured--are all ridiculously delicious. Fresh lychee might be the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. Seriously. It's surreal.

Despite the endless array of fruits in every size, texture, odor, and flavor; one fruit that is not so popular in Thailand is avocado. Pomelo had never tried avocado and found the idea off-putting. She had the sense that avocado is a powerfully strange fruit: funky smelling and tasting. I assured her that’s not the case. That avocado actually has a mild taste and very little odor. Pomelo was skeptically. No she’d never tried one. No she’d never knowingly been in the presence of one. And yet, somehow Pomelo knew I was wrong.

A couple days later I walked into the grocery store and what did I find front and center in the produce department? Of course. Maybe the avocados have always been there and I hadn’t noticed because I wasn’t primed to. In any event, I bought an avocado and perhaps stumbled upon the first reason they aren’t popular: one avocado was about $3. Whatever, I wasn’t making guacamole.

I need to step aside and set a scene before I continue…

Pomelo’s grandma lives across the street from our apartment building and her family runs a little open air restaurant in, what’s in effect, the walled front yard. The restaurant seats perhaps a maximum of 35 people. This where I tutor Pomelo and whenever we’re working together there’s a swirl of a family bustling around. Pomelo’s mom, dad, grandma, and at least two aunts. There are also two  adult women (ages… impossible to determine, maybe 30 and 40) who work at the restaurant; one of those women has two kids aged 12-ish and 10-ish who are often there; and on top of all that there's a steady stream of neighborhood folks flowing in and out. In other words, I tutor Pomelo in a touching  coming-of-age dramaedy coming to an independent film festival near you. I’ll let you guess which character I play. For the record: this restaurant is my hands-down favorite place in Thailand. Its absence from my life will haunt me.

Not a great picture, but this is the pretty much the whole restaurant.

 So that’s the scene I walked into with an avocado in hand.

Pomelo spotted the avocado right away and her reaction was unabashed repulsion. She brought a plate and knife and then watched on with morbid curiosity as I cut the avocado and startled at the point I whacked the seed with the knife to extract it. I cut the avocado into nibble sized pieces so everyone could get a little taste.

Pomelo went first and based on her reaction you would have thought I’d offered her a plate of living, squirming maggots. It was hysterical. She tried to refuse so I pulled the classic parent modeling correct behavior by eating a piece and exaggeratedly saying, “Mmmmmm, so tasty!”

The first thing she clearly wasn’t ready for was the texture. As soon as her fingers hit the avocado her apprehension skyrocketed. Again, based on her reaction you would have thought something truly terrifying was happening to her. Like a kid at a halloween party who just plunged her hand into a bowl of “eyeballs.” If I hadn’t been sitting there goading her she would not have actually tried it.

Pomelo was holding a piece of avocado about the size of her fingernail. Did she pop the whole thing in her mouth? Oh, hell no. She didn’t so much take a bite as smear the piece against her front tooth. Her reaction was melodramatic horror. A frozen scream slowly spread across her face as she inferred the taste through her front tooth. She looked up at her mother across the room and pathetically croaked out a description of the worst thing that had ever happened to her.

That was my cue. I picked up the plate and walked across the room to her mother who vigorously shook her head. To an American a strenuous refusal is really just an indication that a more robust invitation would be appreciated. [Footnote: In some ways I am super American.] So I pressed on through effusive pantomime until she trepidatiously took a piece. To her credit, after a couple moments of contemplating the reality of this abhorrent thing, she actually ate it. Her reaction was pretty much the same as her daughter’s though. I’m guessing she thought it was the worst thing she’d ever tasted.

At that point panic broke out as everyone else in the place realized I was going to force a piece of soylent green on them as well. When I’d turn the plate toward someone she would scurry away alternating between saying “mai, mai, mai” and “no, no, no.” Again, as an American I took this as a challenge, hunting each person down until she was cornered and had no choice but take a piece of the accursed thing.

The two ambiguously aged ladies got cornered at that same time and bickered with each other nonstop as they took their pieces. Then they fought with each other about who would try it first. One took a atom-sized nibble and seeing her reaction up close the other refused as though she’d just been handed the gun in game of Russian Roulette.

One of the aunts took a piece and just held it, staring at it, as though I’d just given her a piece of actual kryptonite. If she ever got around to tasting it I missed it. The only person who ate the avocado without fuss was Pomelo’s dad but, in true Thai style, he tried to smother it with sugar.

Puzzled and amused I tried to get Pomelo to explain what was so offensive about avocado. The look and texture are weird, sure, but the flavor and odor are so mild. After several rounds of attempted and failed explanations Pomelo summed up the experience as, “Like durian for you.”

I have to take her word for it. This strikes me as bizarre, and if you’ve smelled durian I’m sure sure you’re puzzled too. Whatever the root cause of their aversion I promise you this: when face-to-face with a piece of avocado none of these Thai people were smiling.

Three Convesations With My Students That Buddha May Have Overheard

[WARNING: This post includes an uncharitable hyperbolic depiction of Christians. If this is the sort of thing you’re inclined to be offended by I recommend skipping this post, or at least the section titled "They are sneaky, Needle. Keep your eyes open."]

Recently the subject matter in my tutoring has taken a turn for the, uh, less straightforwardly academic with three of my students. This happened all the sudden, at pretty much the same time, for reasons I can’t fathom. I’d say it’s simply because we know each other better, but I’ve known one student for five months, another for about two months, and the last for about two weeks. Maybe it’s a vibe I’m giving off. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe there is no such thing as time and this is all a kind of false past/present dichotomy. I don’t know. Perhaps you’ll have a better read on it than I do.

Kit Kat is less about fattening and more about evil.

Penny, not her real name, decided that because I am skinny I can advise her on a weight loss regimen. Never mind that I’m a 40 year old man and she is a 17 year old girl. My skinniness is all the evidence she needs of my fitness wisdom. I was inclined to brush this off because it seemed weird territory for us to explore together, but she started pressing me on my opinion on the Atkins Diet, which (no offense Atkins Dieters in my life) is madness. So I couldn’t let it pass.

Now our lessons revolve around reading Michael Pollan’s Food Rules, which involves many tangents to discuss evolution by natural selection and even more asides for personal affirmation. “You do not need to lose weight {NOTE: she really doesn’t}. But if you want to eat in ways that are good for you, we can talk about that.” She heartily agrees with me. Of course, I don’t believe that she believes but at least it’s got her rapt English attention. That’s the point, I suppose, but I’d happily trade her English ability for her being content with her physical self.

They are sneaky, Needle. Keep your eyes open.

Needle, not her real name, goes to Catholic school. She’s 11 and I tutor in her home with Pole (clearly not her real name but one a Thai person could totally have), her mother, never more than a room away. I’ve been going there for five months and prior to a few weeks ago I had no sense of how they felt about me. They laugh at my jokes and all that, but, for example, Needle doesn’t know the name of their housekeeper and I had no reason to suspect she thought any more of me. I've slowly come to realize that I’m closer to Needle and Pole than I supposed. Or at least that they appreciate me more than I knew. This feeling crystallized last week when Needle and I were reviewing her class schedule that includes, what I call, “Jesus Class.”

Like virtually all Thai people, Needle’s family is Buddhist. I asked if she also had “Buddha Class” and she said no. I asked if she thought that was weird and she didn’t follow. After several rounds of Socratic questioning we arrived at me bluntly telling her, “Christians are sneaky, Needle. They think Jesus is better than Buddha. Do you believe in Jesus? No, but they make you go to Jesus Class. Do you believe in their god? No, but they make you pray to him, even thank him for your food when that’s clearly the jurisdiction of Thai spirits. They do this because they want you to believe in Jesus and their god. Be careful, Needle. They are sneaky. Keep your eyes open.”

Pole was in the room the whole time we were having this conversation. I had no idea how she’d feel about it. After all, she was the one who sent Needle to Catholic school and there I was telling her daughter that, in effect, her teachers had a secret agenda antithetical to her beliefs. Some people might take this as me undermining her education and yell at me (I know this because it has happened). I figured Pole would jump in if something struck her as untoward. Near the end of my blunt warning that “Christians are sneaky… Keep your eyes open,” Pole came over to the table and stood between Needle and me.

Needle and Pole are a hybrid of daughter/mother and best friends. I’ve never seen Pole be stern with Needle. I’ve seen her get flustered. I’ve seen her get upset. But I’ve never seen her strike a posture and take tone that unequivocally conveyed, “Do not frak with me otherwise I will rain fire down on you.” With a stern air Pole looked down at me as I finished my warning. I wondered if she was about to fire me. Then she looked at Needle and said, “Do you understand what he is saying?” Pole turned back to me. “Again, please.”

She wanted me to go through it again! This time as I went through it Pole translated everything into Thai for Needle so she could follow my admonition detail by detail. I got the sense that this wasn’t something they’d talked about before. It’s entirely possible that Pole hadn’t really considered the religious indoctrination aspect of Catholic school. Needle also has a class dedicated to the history of her school that prompted Pole to quip with a degree of sarcasm I'd never before heard from a Thai person, “That will help her a lot in her future career.” But it’s a “good” (and no doubt expensive) school. So maybe Pole figures these befuddling, pointless classes are a small price to pay for a “good” education. I’m not sure but it’s now seemingly clear that while Needle and Pole might not remember my name, they are unlikely to forget me anytime soon.

What’s the remaining 30%?

And then there is Ewan. Clearly not his real name. Ewan is 12 and of my kids he’s the one who most openly resists doing any actual work. Not necessarily because it’s difficult, his spoken English is fluent if slightly sing-songy (we work on grammar), but rather because there’s so much he wants to talk about that he can’t be bothered with mundane drivel. Why review subject/verb agreement when we could be talking about Star Wars, Spiderman, video games, toys, and--as of a couple weeks ago--girls.

Ewan is in the midst of a crush and was looking for guidance. Since being skinny doesn’t necessarily mean I'm a crush expert, he asked me how many crushes I’ve had. “Ooof, dude, that’s difficult to answer. Many. Many, many.” He pressed for a number and I told him we have to get our terminology straight so I introduced him to the Crush-O-Meter.

“The crush you’ve got now is a 10. You think about her all the time. You can’t sleep. You wonder what you should do, how to act around her, what to say, what not to say. That's a classic crush. A level 1 crush is like when you’re getting ketchup at McDonald’s and there’s a girl in the way. You ask her if you can get some ketchup and when she turns to say ‘sure’ you realize she’s cute. Now you’re thinking about the cute ketchup girl. Who is she? What’s she like? Where does she go to school? You think about her a lot while you’re eating but by the end of the day you can’t quite remember what she looked like. A few days later all you remember is the fact there was a ketchup girl but nothing else. That’s a level 1 crush.”

Ewan agreed to the Crush-O-Meter metric.

“If we’re talking crushes 1-10 I can’t even comprehend how many crushes I’ve had, so let’s just talk about level 5 and up. Assuming I started having those crushes around age 10, I’d guess I’ve had about 100 crushes.”

Ewan’s jaw dropped. I should have anticipated this but it caught me off guard. Of course that number would sound inconceivable to someone in the midst of his first or possibly second crush. This seemed to nudge Ewan into thinking I’m a cad. So I explained that crushes are about feelings, but being a cad is about actions. You can’t help how you feel, but you can control how you act. That--I’m sure all of you can see--naturally rolled into talking about Buddhism.

All of the kids assume I’m Christian and are momentarily discombobulated when I disabuse them of the notion. This happened with Ewan and he asked what I am then. “I don’t really know. I’m some Buddhist, up to a point, and then I’m a bunch of other things stitched together from books, movies, and life.”

Ewan accepted that without reservation and without missing a beat replied, “I’m, like, 70% Buddhist, but at night when I think a lot about it it freaks me out.” At this point I should to point out that Thai Buddhism is itself something like 60% Buddhism, 30% pagan polytheist spiritualism, and 10% “other” ranging from Confucian to Hindu. Somehow in that swirl of influences I’ve heard some of my students talk about Buddhist hell and purgatory. I have no idea if these are orthodox concepts for Thai Buddhist in general or a translation hiccup. Whatever it is, that’s what Ewan was freaked out about: Thai Buddhist hell.

I asked, “If you’re 70% Buddhist what’s the other 30%?”

Ewan has a touch of theater in him. He glanced at the door like someone might be eavesdropping on us, then looked at me for a moment as though sizing me up, and then leaned back in chair and cooly said:

“Aliens. I’m 70% Buddhist and 30% aliens.”

Without quite being able to articulate it exactly, what Ewan had struck upon was the idea that if aliens are real then it must at least call into question some of our metaphysical beliefs. If aliens don’t have a hell to go to then why would we?

Contrary what you might imagine, I took a backseat during Ewan’s alien explanation. I merely confirmed that the odds are heavily in favor the existence of some form of aliens, and then made lots of affirmative noises and gestures. There was nothing for me to add because Ewan was already on a path of his own making. As I’ve told one of my students repeatedly, “The only thing I want for you is for you to become the you-est you that you can be. I don’t know what that is, and neither does anyone else. It’s for you to figure out and you’ve got your whole life to do it.”

ET, phone home. And take this guy too.

However these extra-curricular conversations came about they’re about to come to an abrupt halt. Some of my students have already scattered to the wind, gone back to their hometowns, scaled back their tutoring now that school is in session, or even left the country to attend high school in the UK or USA. I’ve got three weeks left with the ones who remain. For all but one that means seeing them, at most, three more times.

Is it vanity to wonder if I’ve made a difference? In the sense of “pride” or in the sense of “futility” or both? I go back and forth on it. I’m just a random stranger in a strange land blundering through their lives for a minute. Maybe I shouldn’t make a noteworthy difference in the lives of these young people because who the hell am I? The truth is I’m not entirely sure. Is that what I’m trying to inoculate them against? Figure out the you-est you because I’m still hazy on who the me-est me is. Does any of this matter? The kid I’ve spent the most time with will add up to about 40 hours in the end. A single work week. It is possible I’m over-thinking this.

Whether I made a difference or not; whether I should or shouldn’t have; I will absolutely cry the last time I see these kids. Maybe not in their presence, I hope not in their presence (too intense), but I will cry. And it’s times like this--when I can see that emotional pummeling rumbling my way three weeks out--that I wish I were 70% Alien, 20% Buddhist, and 10% Other. That way this would all be an interesting diversion, something to file in a report or blog about, rather than what it is: judgement.

Did this elephant get more out of our time together than any of my students?

The Chiang Mai Enigma: death, bliss, same-same

Chiang Mai is Thailand’s second largest city and often billed as an antidote to Bangkok (a diiiiiiiiiiistant second, with about a million versus 13 million people). One is overwhelming, hot, and garish. The other is charming, temperate, and quaint. Several people who’ve traveled in Thailand told us they didn’t care for or even disliked Bangkok but loved Chiang Mai. When we first arrived in Thailand Chiang Mai was high on our Must Do list. For a variety of reasons it fell into the Nice To Do But, You Know, Whatever… Life category and was briefly ruled out altogether. Then Spectra got one of her travel itches and used Chiang Mai as the scratching post so we finally got there last week.

While it is true that Chiang Mai plays charming and quaint against Bangkok’s overwhelming and garish, it is a damned lie that it’s temperate. Both cities are unacceptably hot. Chiang Mai is cooler at night—thanks to the thinner, drier mountain air—so the walk home from dinner is refreshing. Alas, Chiang Mai has not shifted life into the evening so things like temples are open during the day. 

Have you ever read a book or seen a movie where people need to simply keep moving to stay alive and someone decides to “take a rest” knowing that it means s/he’ll die? That’s always struck me as ridiculous. All you have to do is keep putting one foot in front of the other; why wouldn’t you trudge along until you drop? After walking around Chiang Mai in the dead of day I get it. I remember looking at a temple a couple blocks away and thinking, “I’m just going to take a rest now, here, in the middle of the street, man, that sounds nice.” Still, two out three ain’t bad. 

I am not pictured because I was dead.

 True to all trips planned by Spectra, our four days there were less than leisurely. We took a night train and stayed in the heart of Chiang Mai, in the “old city” that’s surrounded by a moat and remnants of walls constructed nearly 1,000 years ago (Chiang Mai, or its full name, means “walled city”). We walked through a variety of impressive temples. We ate terrific food. Had coffee at Ristr8to, which is the best fraking coffee shop either one of us has ever been to, hands down… even without air conditioning on a 36c/97f degree day. We went to an elephant sanctuary where we fed and bathed rescued elephants, four of which had stepped on landmines while logging. The pièce de résistance: we stayed in a treehouse hotel that was so perfect in its way that we’re tempted to go back to Chiang Mai before we leave so we can stay another couple nights: Rabeang Pasak Chiangmai Treehouse Resort. 

With all that in mind, here are the four things I will forever remember about Chiang Mai: Pinn, AJ, Lisa, and Sci. That’s a Thai woman, the brother of a high school friend of mine, a Chinese woman, and a Thai man. Sure, I saw spellbinding scenery and gazed into a culture’s historical heart, but none it made me feel better about being human. None of it made me think, “Thank Solustron I lived as long as I did and that my life twisted and turned such that I found myself sitting here with you."

The AJ Experience

Before I get to the defining episode of this trip I have to quickly sing the praises of AJ. His older brother Brett and I were core friends in high school. I think I was 18 the last time I saw AJ and he was 15. Had I passed him on the street a couple weeks ago the only reason I would have noticed him is he’s 6’8” (203 cm). Even then I’m not sure I would have put together who he is because when we met for dinner I struggled to assign his face to someone from my past. The truth is I couldn’t quite do it. I mean, I knew it was him, if for no other reason he shares too many mannerisms with his brother not to be, but after a couple minutes I just accepted that the person before me was AJ even though I couldn’t transpose his face onto the person I knew a little once upon a time. 

Going to Chiang Mai and hanging out with AJ was one of those things that reflexively sounded like a good idea when Brett mentioned it five months ago on the other side of the world. Only when I was faced with the reality of making a plan with someone I don’t really know did it suddenly strike me as a less obviously great idea. What if AJ was one of the unsavory farang whom I so detest sleezing around Thailand? What if he’s something worse than that (even though I can’t imagine what that would be)? I consoled myself with the fact that we’d only committed to one meal with him and could conveniently forget to make additional plans the rest of our stay. 

AJ was lurking within. Ready to charm and produce a special rate on beer.

 We ended up having dinner with AJ twice and then hanging out with him in his home the afternoon before we returned to Bangkok. Practically speaking that means we spent every available moment we could with AJ. We even sat around his home for a few hours drinking beer, eating chips, watching TV and then looking at slideshows of his trips to Ankor Wat and Taiwan. Keep in mind, Spectra “GO GO GO Everything That Can Be Seen Must Be Seen” Myers was sitting on that couch too. That’s how fraking delightful AJ is. Without so much as a grumble or a sideways glance at me, Spectra idled away a whole afternoon when there were dozens of temples left to see. AJ could not have known it, but this is the highest compliment Spectra can pay a person. 

My mother nearly lost her feet in Kyoto thanks to the punishing drive of Travel Spectra. She would have been thunderstruck by the sight of Spectra drinking a beer at 2 in the afternoon, watching a reality TV show about how Malaysia trains their special forces, without a care in the world for the “silver temple” across the street. That is to say the easygoing power of AJ is something to behold if you’re ever in Chiang Mai. I suspect no connection to AJ would be necessary but it would make it easier get in touch with him. If you have no connection to him but fancy a visit, let me know and I’ll arrange a meeting. 

My friend AJ and me. Looking kind of giant.

Okay, so the defining Chiang Mai episode.

"My movie isn't about Chiang Mai. My movie IS Chiang Mai." ~ Pinn

Chiang Mai is “in the mountains” like Salt Lake City is. That is to say, the mountains are very close but you’re not “in” them like you are when you’re in a ski resort town like Vail. Our final night in Chiang Mai was the only one we spent outside the city, in the surrounding mountain jungle. We spent this night in a treehouse. Had we known what it would be like we would have spent more than one night there. 

We stayed here one measly night. We are fools.

On the way we stopped at the Four Seasons Resort to pick up another treehouse guest. Spectra and I were both surprised to hear someone from, perhaps, the poshest resort in all of Thailand (which is saying something) was joining us and were preemptively concerned about what kind of person this would be. It was the mirror image of the anxiety we’d feel if we were picking someone up at the Reggae Backpacker Wild Weed Hostel and Love Shack. Not that everyone who stays in either of those kinds of places is a reprehensible person, but the odds creep up that at first blush she or he will be an obvious bummer. 

Our Four Seasons addition turned out to be a Chinese woman of indeterminate age--let’s say 30, give or take 15 years--named Lisa. She sat in the front seat, we sat in the back, so there was a little initial chatter but it was difficult to maintain without her fully turning around in her seat. Since she wasn’t me that wasn’t going to happen. It was not immediately clear that she was deplorable, which was all we could really ask for, and there was even an encouraging sign. 

Lisa asked the driver how far it was to the treehouse. He answered, sixty kilometers, or something. Then I immediately asked him, “How far it is to Nirvana from here?” Lisa burst out laughing while the driver was confused. I congratulated the driver on his non-answer explaining that he was right, “Nirvana is nowhere and everywhere. The distance to Nirvana is a secret hidden in one’s heart.” She laughed again. The driver may have attained enlightenment. It was difficult to tell with certainty. 

What the driver saw in that moment.

 We arrived at Rabeang Pasak Chiangmai Treehouse and were greeted by the owner, Mr. Lee. He’s Thai, probably in the neighborhood of 70 and, we found out later, a Pratt Institute trained architect. Because where else would you get your training to build treehouses in the mountain jungle of rural Thailand but a revered, tiny school in Brooklyn. Have I mentioned life on Earth is brilliantly ridiculous and that we should stop ruining it? If not, consider it mentioned. Mr. Lee informed us that due to cancellations Spectra, Lisa, and I had the run of the place. He even insisted we check multiple treehouses to choose the one we liked most. Spectra’s dream is to live in a treehouse so she was basically out of her mind at this point. 

After we settled in it was already time for dinner. We ate on a big patio overlooking a stream and the treehouses. We tried like crazy to get Lisa to sit with us but she demurred. Mr. Lee’s daughter Pinn, who helps run the place, was less resistant to our conversational overtures. Each time she came by to check on us we detained her a little longer and by the end of the meal she pulled up a chair to talk with us. Perhaps Pinn’s inclusion was a sign to Lisa that we Americans wouldn’t get all America on her because she shortly joined our conversation too. 

This stream. One night. Again, we are fools.

The four of us took a short walk down to a marsh that looked like a planetarium projection. It was like a Milky Way of fireflies in a narrow band above the reeds extending back into the forest as far as we could see. “Like Christmas,” Pinn said. I feigned ignorance out of fear that Jesus might show up and ruin everything. He didn’t. After the fireflies we returned to the patio. Pinn excused herself to, like, work or something, but Lisa was in. We sat there for a couple hours chatting. 

It turned out Lisa was in Chiang Mai meeting with some sort of tea tasting organization. There were 400 people in town to drink tea. Tea from Thailand, we assumed. No. Lisa was in Chiang Mai, Thailand with 350 other Chinese people (according to Lisa, the remaining 50 were from random places like Canada but definitely not Japan) to drink tea from... China. Rare tea, she assured us. I asked if they were in Chiang Mai to drink it because the tea had to be smuggled out of China. She laughed, but no. 

So Lisa was a Chinese lady in Thailand to drink tea from China at the Four Seasons Resort. Do you feel a pang of envy? What if I add that she was beautiful, gregarious and sharp? Before you answer, keep in mind she was stunned and openly jealous of the fact that neither Spectra’s nor my mother would ever even casually mention that maybe it would be nice if we’d have a baby some day. She was also in awe of the frequency of our communications with our mothers: Spectra once a week; me haphazardly that probably works out to being once every 3 weeks. Lisa talks to her parents every day. Every day they poke and prod about when she’s going to get married and have children. I’m not sure how many idyllic tea parties she’d trade for Spectra’s parent communication regimen but I’d wager the answer is greater than one. 

Spectra and I went to bed knowing know we wouldn’t see Lisa again. Or at least I wouldn’t. Lisa had to leave early in the morning to catch her flight back to China. Early isn’t my thing but sometimes it’s Spectra’s. She didn’t catch her though. 

Around 9:30 we went up for breakfast. We ate and then Pinn came over and we got to talking. By the way, the “P” in her name is actually the impossible sound that’s between “p” and “b” and the double-n is to indicate the sound at the end of her name is falling. She swore I managed to say her name correctly a couple times but I doubt it. Like Lisa, Pinn is also of indeterminate age: roughly 30, give or take 15 years. At some point Spectra decided to explore the grounds and the treehouses. Pinn and I kept chatting. About an hour later Spectra returned and Pinn and I were still chatting. 

Pinn’s life story is for her share, so I’m not going to really get into it, but she lived in the United States in non-obvious immigrant places for almost a decade before returning to Thailand to help her father with the treehouses. If anyone reading this knows Wong Kar-Wai I think you should mention Pinn to him because he might want to make a movie about a Pinn-like person living a treehouse in the mountain jungle outside of Chiang Mai. If Mr. Wong isn’t available, someone please contact Werner Herzog. 

Like her Pratt educated, architect, treehouse building father; Pinn is a walking, talking, laughing, eye-rolling endorsement for the inherent ridiculous brilliance of humanity. If aliens are watching trying decide whether humans should be exterminated to let something more interesting take over, I’m sure they’ve keyed in on Pinn. One Pinn is worth many less sterling types found at the Four Seasons or Reggae Backpacker Wild Weed Hostel and Love Shack. Same goes for Lisa and AJ and Sci (whose story I won’t be touching on, I’m sorry to say, because this thing shouldn’t go on forever). 

When Spectra rejoined us Pinn looked at her and said, “He asks so many questions. Every time I think he will forget, but no. He remembers and asks again.” 

“This is normal,” Spectra assured her. “He loves doing this to people.” 

 

This moment was a mini-revelation for me. If Spectra is “everything that can be seen must be seen,” then I am “everything that a person can tell must be heard.” I’d been sitting there interrogating a next-to-stranger for approximately two hours while Spectra spent half that time exploring the treehouse valley. She was doing her thing and I was doing mine. I don’t think we’d ever so explicitly bifurcated an experience like that before. As far as revelations go this one would have to count as minor. It’s unlikely to have finally punch my enlightenment ticket, and its utility is of limited or perhaps nil value. Spectra and I were naturally inclined to give the other space to do our inherent self things anyway so this won’t resolve any issues because there weren’t any. 

So what does this mean? I don’t know. Why does this make me feel better about being alive? I’m not sure. What is my current distance to nirvana? I have no idea. Is this insight attributable to Chiang Mai? That's the most salient question here but it's no more answerable than the others. At best it's debatable but we've never seen it reported in guidebooks like, “Thanks to less hurlyburly and a more walkable environment than Bangkok, as you meander from temple to temple through the invigorating, sun dappled streets of Chiang Mai you may find yourself gaining new insights into, not only Thailand, but also into yourself.”  

 

Does this look enlightening?

What to make of Chiang Mai then? I honestly can't say. It's not exactly what it's cracked up to be, but it isn't entirely NOT what it's cracked up to be either. Perhaps this is part of its charm. That like your distance from Nirvana, Chiang Mai can only be measured by your heart. You might want to lie down and die in the street. You might find people who make you happy to be alive. These might be the same thing. I have no idea what that thing is but I'd pay to see Wong Kar-Wai (or Werner Herzog) contemplate it in a movie simply called Pinn.

How about this?

Military Declares Martial Law: We Debate Seeing Godzilla in "4D"

A very brief post for nervous mothers and, perhaps, Beckett.

You may have notice that martial law was declared in Thailand in headlines and articles that also often include the expression "coup d'état." Here is a verbatim exchange of texts Spectra and I had this morning in light of the news:

SPECTRA: did you read about the military martial law?

ME: Yep. You are living under Martial Law. The military says, "Don't Panic."

SPECTRA: 5555*

ME: No. They really did. They said, "Don't panic." Apparently both sides, Red and Yellow, have issued statements saying, "Okay, we'll back down now. And we won't panic."

SPECTRA: everyone has their towels, huh?

So there you have it. Life under martial law. The most pressing issue Spectra and I are facing is whether we'll see "Godzilla" in 4D or not. 4D is when your chair shakes and wind gets blown in your face, stuff like that. It's 6-times the cost of a regular movie though and I hate 3D, which is part of the 4D experience. We both feel like we should experience this once before we leave but when it's time to buy the ticket will we go through with it?

Alas, the military will not bail us out of this conundrum. We'll have to solve it the old fashioned way: trading punches to the stomach until someone throws up. Because that, Beckett (if you're reading), is ultimately the best way to solve all intractable disputes. Nay, Beckett, it is the ONLY way.


*This is the Thai equivalent of "LOL." The word "five" sounds like "ha."

Truths and Lies about Thailand: “everyone” speaks English

At a minimum, Americans (and Germans) have the sense that everyone in Thailand speaks English. Not literally, of course, but we do believe that wherever we go there will be Thai people who speak enough English to negate our need to speak any Thai. That’s pretty much true in the tourist intensive areas, but the moment you step off the Farang Trail the prevalence of English precipitously declines, and without rudimentary Thai you find yourself struggling to order even a cup of tea. This was a rude awakening for Spectra and me because we live nowhere near the Farang Trail. Our pathetic attempts at learning a little Thai were incinerated in a trial by fire as we struggled to do anything that didn’t involve McDonald’s or 7-eleven. It was a humbling and bewildering first month (or two). And one I heartily endorse.

Thailand is not an English speaking nation. It’s Thailand, which is where they speak Thai. Many people here do speak English, which is nice for we English speakers, and considering it’s currently the world’s lingua franca that’s no doubt of broader utilitarian benefit to them. Still, learning any language beyond one’s native tongue should be a choice freely made. If vast tracts of Americans still stubbornly refuse to learn a second language, then that’s a right we ought to endorse in other nations too. I've demonstrated my support by learning a trifle of Thai, and I rather enjoy the painstaking process of slooooooowly finding an understanding with Thai people who speak no English. 

Just in case you don’t know, Thai is a tonal language. This is a daunting hurdle for English speakers—who aren’t musicians—and it isn’t the only one. Thai also features a bunch of sounds that are, for lack of a better description, in between familiar English sounds. For example, there’s a sound between P and B. Try and make that sound. Try it. I dare you! I can’t even hear it much less make it. So when I'm attempting to say a word with one of those mystery sounds I make an exaggerated mess of it to convey it’s the sound hidden in here that I can’t make. Tones in conjunction with hidden sounds mean Thai people often have NO CLUE what I’m talking even when I know what I'm saying. 

To wit, my home bus stop is “major.” Yes, the English word. It’s the name of a movie theater chain that has a location across the street from our apartment. Convenient, right? How many different ways do you think there are to say “major”? Take a moment. Think about it. As far as I can tell there are at least twelve. Five potential vowel sounds for the A, five more for the O, and at least two for the J because it’s one of those in between sounds. Plus, the R is silent. And the R in conjunction with the O make that vowel sound more like “uh” than anything typically associated with an O. So a simple English word like “major” ends up sounding more like “may-jch-uh.” And that’s without the tones. 

Context often saves the day, but even with a word seemingly as simple as "major" it can take several seconds of saying it over and over and over changing the tones and mangling the vowels every way I can think of until the Thai person I'm talking to finally hears it. I love these “oooooooh” moments, and the laughter that usually ensues, but one place it's not fun is the bus. The ticket person on the bus is usually in a hurry. When she (or much less frequently, he) is stymied by the tone deaf, thick tongued, unintelligible farang butchering the name of a bus stop beyond recognition; she quickly scans the bus to find the secret everpresent font of English assistance: young Thai people. 

If my experience and recollection are fair indicators, which they are not, then virtually all Thai people 25-and-under on buses speak English. This happens without fail when the ticket lady gets fed up with my verbal gymnastics: She scans the bus to find the nearest young lady in a school uniform. It’s almost always a young lady in school uniform and there is always at least one on the bus (university students wear uniforms too). The ticket lady will say something in Thai to the young lady who will then either simply look at me or say, “Where do you want to go?” I’ll tell her the name of the place I’m going, and then she’ll say it to the ticket lady who will immediately understand… even though I’m sure the student said the exact same thing I just said! 

I'd bet my life that someone speaks English on that bus.

I have yet to find this exasperating. It's closer to experiencing a magic trick that seems so simple, and you think you've identified the part where the sleight of hand takes hides the secret, but you can't quite put it all together. I know what the student says is subtly different than what I say but I just can't hear it. We’ll be leaving at the end of June so it's doubtful I'll ever master the tones and mystery sounds. This is a bummer but it’s not a crippling setback. Because while it’s a lie that everyone in Thailand speaks English; it is an astonishing and mystifying truth—every bit as inconceivable as the existence of a sound between P and B—that the young person nearest the ticket lady on the bus most certainly does.