I have noticed a man and his wife, both, I'd say, in their mid-40s. As the morning has worn on, they've appeared more and more distraught. Initially, they presented the perfect image of self-confident and complacent yuppiehood. I have them figured for American oil-company people. Just looking at them, you can be pretty sure they didn't get those bronzed complexions standing at bus-stops or picking fruit. By now, however, they are beginning to fray a bit around the edges. The man's suntan has developed a definite florid tinge.
They have two shipping agents with them (though their combined speed is still less than that of the White Rabbit). "Wait for us here," they tell the woman, and they park her next to me. I guess this is the waiting-for-agents area. The husband whirls off in their slipstream.
She introduces herself and asks me what I do. I tell her and then ask her what oil company they work for. She tells me they're missionaries. They've just arrived from Georgia, via Singapore. While in Singapore, some friends told them they were crazy if they waited till they got to Sarakan to buy appliances and electronic goods. Everything is so expensive in Sarakan. So they took their friends' advice and bought it all in Singapore and shipped it by air to Sarakan. Good move. Now they're facing an import duty of around US$1500. And they don't want to pay.
So we swap Air Cargo experiences, and she tells me a bit about their new van and the big house they have to furnish and how much of shock it was to learn about the import tax. I commiserate.
There's not much to do in the waiting-for-agents area except enjoy the spectacle of other miserable petitioners in their torment. Ah — there's a familiar face, for example.
A lugubrious fellow, a Sarakanese, I think, who has been passing back and forth for the past two days, empty-handed and empty-faced, like a wind-up toy. Chances are he was an air-cargo official in his last life, and he's been condemned to an eternity of trying to find Annex C-7, Room 2107A, which does not exist, before he can collect his belongings and go home. The missionary's wife thinks that's a pretty good theory, except it's not theologically sound.
At this point the husband returns, looking more florid and even less happy. We are introduced, but he is not in the mood for small talk. He turns to his wife.
"The agents think we can get off for US$500. Under the table. I told them no way."
"Do you mean we could leave?" She looks so wistful it practically breaks my heart.
"I am not going to deal under the table."
Here I presume to interfere: "Well, you know things are done a little differently in these parts. And $500 doesn't sound like a bad deal..."
He draws himself up into a veritable thunderhead of self-righteous wrath. "I will not pay a bribe. I don't care what the local customs are." He considers for a moment, and then adds, "That is one of the reasons we have come here. To change things."
Some might think this guy has a lot of nerve. They might think, "Okay, that's all I need; now I can pay my tea money out of principle." But I can see his point: what with America having already been spiritually perfected, his mission is, perforce, to move ever further afield in search of corruption and sin.
"But honey..," his wife tries again.
"No."
Their shippers reappear and draw him aside for a huddle. Then off the three of them go again.
We get to watch some more people. Over there in the distance, I catch a brief glimpse of the White Rabbit flitting from one hole to another. And here is my special pal, a rotund Sarakanese. A deaf-mute. I believe he works here in some capacity. Several times, both today and yesterday, he has come over to beam reassuringly at me, giving me the thumbs-up sign and then ambling off. Maybe he's the official cheerer-upper. Maybe Sarakan's officialdom, in all its humanity, wants to suggest a ray of hope in this our darkest hour. Right now he's all thumbs at the high port, radiating optimism like a jolly fat lighthouse.
And just maybe he's right, for the White Rabbit has materialised again, and he's bearing something that he appears quite proud of. He thrusts it at me in triumph; it is a rule-book, very graciously printed in both Sarakanese and English, and weighing no more than 10 kilos. And there. There where he's pointing is the rule recorded in black and white: personal effects may be brought in duty-free within one month of the resident's arrival in Thailand. After that, the goods will be subject to taxation. Quite explicit. Quite clear. Where are the grounds for celebration in that? I've lost, right? But no. The White Rabbit stabs at some fine print. In "special circumstances", it says, these charges may be waived. There it is. Beautiful. That very Sarakanese flexibility built right into this otherwise Kafkaesque excursion through purgatory.
That's the good news. The bad news is that the official in charge of Exceptional Circumstances inhabits an office which is some 15 kilometres distant. If we want to have the slightest chance of finishing today, of getting to see this fellow and then getting back here to run the rest of the gauntlet before the end of the working day, then we have to hurry. The White Rabbit passes me a handful of Rolaids, and we're off, leaving the missionary's wife pining away in
the waiting-for-agents area.
It seems that the mere fact of having discovered the fine print and then tracked the appropriate official to his lair is sufficient to win a plea of exceptional circumstances, for we wait no longer than 20 minutes before being ushered in to see an individual so beribboned and brocaded in his brilliant white uniform he'd have any Admiral of the Fleet snapping salutes. He waits till the White Rabbit finishes his veritable tour de force of bowing and scraping and wringing of hands. Then he pulls out a thick sheaf of paper and the next thing I know I am signing a bunch of things in quadruplicate, I'm not sure what, but it's making the White Rabbit so happy that I couldn't think of not doing it.
Just like that, after two days, I have passed. The official is smiling; I am smiling; even the White Rabbit is smiling, though maybe it's only gas. We drive back to Air Cargo at high speed, minutes to spare.
Things are not the same; all is transformed by the lens of optimism. There is the reincarnated official, still passing through, still seeking an office that doesn't exist; but even his step springs lighter, it seems. The jolly lighthouse is up into the million candlepower range, welcoming me back, sensing my imminent triumph. My least favourite official in the world, the one I've vowed would never get money out of me, has to cave in, faced with the arsenal of documents the White Rabbit deposits on his desk, all stamped and signed by the Man in Charge of Exceptional Circumstances. Thwarted in his evil plans, the unpleasant fellow looks even more unpleasant; he makes a token show of examining the forms, but he quickly gives it up. Before I know it, I am opening my trunk, surprised and pleased to find a ukulele I'd forgotten all about. And these clothes will be quite useful, once they're washed.
Everyone's happy. Almost everyone. The missionary's wife comes over, and she congratulates me on my good fortune, never mind she is herself almost desperate by now. At that very moment, however, her husband returns, muttering something under his breath, probably prayers.
"I told them once, and I told them twice," he intoned. "I would not deal*under the table. But they went ahead and paid anyway. And I had to pay them back. Our shippers, I mean. It's on their heads. I told them I wouldn't deal under the table. I wash my hands of it."
"But... What do you mean? Can we go?"
'Yes. It's on their heads. It only cost us $500.1 wash my hands of it."
Nothing like a little pragmatic soul-searching to settle the stomach before dinner, I've always said. But I don't know why he doesn't look happier. They are well out of it, after all. And it isn't on his head.
My friend the deaf-mute is being happy enough for all of us anyway. He is playing a merry tune on my ukulele; he really seems to know his way around that noble instrument, in fact. Caught up in the spirit of it all, and not entirely pleased at my reunion with the uke anyhow — to tell the truth, it has never managed to translate my musical sentiments exactly the way I intend them—I give it to the cheerer- upper,
figuring that's the least I can do. It's a kind of special tax, one I'm more than happy to pay under these exceptional circumstances.
I offer to take the White Rabbit away for a victory drink, but he's got to be off; he's late, he's late. I make a note to send him a large box of Rolaids first thing next week.
3 LEARNING TO WALK
Can you keep smiling even while dealing with air cargo officials? If so, then you are on your way to qualifying as an honorary Thai. If you really want to test your capacity to smile under any and all circumstances, however, simply take a walk on the streets of this fair city.
In Bangkok, it's better that your average Westerner never walks. Indeed, for a farang, negotiating the sidewalks of Bangkok can be an invitation to a stroke. And it's not the heat or the pollution that's the problem; it's the Western notion that a Thai doesn't know how to walk.
This news probably surprises your average Thai, who thinks that he has been performing the trick of walking quite adequately, and this from an early age. But merely getting from A to B on foot in this city can be a torment for his Western counterpart. "Thais amble," this individual will say, as though this were a sin worse than putting ice cubes in your beer (which, incidentally, is also a local custom).
It's not just that Thais are moving too slowly — that's bad enough, from the viewpoint of the Westerner as he lopes along flat out, hell-bent-for-leather, even if he has nowhere in particular he's going. No, it's more than that.
Just as Thais do, Westerners have a private space which surrounds them — 18 inches is about average with Americans, for instance. This zone of privacy, however, is crucially different in Americans and in Thais. For the American, when he is walking on a public sidewalk, the zone extends to the path ahead. Cognitively, he has already appropriated a strip of territory which extends in a straight line in front of him. By walking at a certain pace and looking determinedly ahead, he signals that this is his space, and you shouldn't enter into it on a collision course unless you are either a good friend or a mugger. Back in a Western cultural context, this is all quite unconscious. It is only when this private lane is persistently violated that the walker has occasion to ask what the heck is going on, and sometimes in stronger terms than that. In Bangkok, then, from his point of view, there doesn't seem to be the slightest idea of lanes of traffic. People stop without warning; they step directly into his path; they mill about in impromptu roadblocks. Phalanxes of chattering schoolgirls walk right over him.
The problem of walking in a strange culture, of course, is just one aspect of a much larger issue. The channels and measures of our behaviour can be very subtle. We are often no more aware of them than we are of the beating of our own hearts. But when we are removed from the comfortable familiarity of our particular culture and then set down in another, it may suddenly seem as though everything is out of synch. With every move one makes there is the grinding of cultural gears and the gnashing of teeth. Even an action so basic as walking from A to B in a crowded street can be a source of aggravation. You may feel as though there is a conspiracy to frustrate you at every turn — a collective decision taken without your knowledge or consent that everyone will henceforth move to the beat of a different drummer, a drummer you cannot hear. The essential problem is this: everyone else is out of step except you, the victim of the conspiracy; you know you are conducting yourself properly.
But consider how the people around you feel, threatened with being steamrollered by a large red-faced foreigner rampaging along in a fit of pique — this quite possibly dangerous creature doing the Funky Chicken in the middle of everybody's nice Thai waltz. It would hardly be surprising, then, if their reactions in turn further exacerbated your feeling of alienation. If you are not careful, the whole syndrome can escalate into what is popularly known as "culture shock".
The Thai walking on the street is not deliberately trying to blow all the blood vessels in the hyperkinetic farang's head. Relatively speaking, it might be suggested, Thais are simply more adept at living in the moment, at enjoying what they are doing for its own sake. It is possible simply to enjoy being there. The thought of constantly rushing about, even when there is no pressing reason for getting anywhere, seems just a little insane, in fact.
Certainly, in these cases, there is no correct manner of proceeding as opposed to an incorrect one. Cultural habits are connected with whole ways of living which have evolved over millennia. It could be suggested, however, that one culture may profitably learn from the other. For example, the simple notion that life has more to offer than the rush to its conclusion is an idea that merits serious consideration.
So, finally, if you must walk in Bangkok (and some, be they Thai or foreign, would argue that this practice is in itself ill-advised), simmer down; try to relax and enjoy what you are doing for its own intrinsic value. All the blustering and attempts at broken-field running in the world will not make Thais change their natural rhythm to suit yours. Nor, of course, should it.
Slow down and take time to smell the roses (more likely the jasmine). Or the city buses and the klongs. Whatever.
4 LIFE IN THE FAST LANE
Thailand is balm for the soul. Taking pleasure in the moment, the people move at a pace governed more by human values than by the demands of Western materialism. So why, then, is Martin Goodspeed in such a hurry to leave?
"Good grief!" said Martin. "The smiles — everybody's always smiling! And they amble. It's enough to drive you mad, all the ambling and smiling."
In truth, he did seem a little close to the edge, black bags under his eyes and a break in his voice. Martin Goodspeed was a hearty, blustering sort of fellow from Toronto — a friend of an old friend. He had arrived in Thailand a couple of months before. Now he seemed diminished in body and spirit, a man who had stared into the Abyss. He also had a large wad of gauze taped to the crown of his head.
"Buy you a beer?" I suggested.
"Sure."
"How's the trip been going?" I asked. I wondered how he had come up with the head wound.
He told me he'd seen quite a lot since last we met. He'd been up to Chiang Mai, Mae Hong Son, and various other interesting places. Oh, yeah, he said; it was a beautiful country. Lovely scenery, lovely people. Beautiful. Fascinating. Great food.
"No problems with the food?" I enquired.
"No. Not now, anyway. But a few weeks ago... Why do you ask?"
"Well, truth be told, you don't look exactly cheerful for a guy who's just had a couple of months traipsing around this paradise you've described."
Martin scowled and proceeded to give me a rather disjointed account of his travels, speaking in halting phrases and gulping beer as though it were medicine.
"Let me give you an example," he said. "This was just one day in Chiang Rai. A Friday evening, it was. I was down to about 20 baht in Thai currency, but I had some US$500 in traveller's cheques and a couple of hundred-dollar bills. No problem, I figured. But then I found nobody would cash the cheques! I couldn't believe it. Even at my hotel. 'You've got to cash this,' I told them. 'It's legal tender. It's money.'
"The more I ranted at them, the more they all smiled. They kept smiling at me. And then they wouldn't take the hundred-dollar bills; they said they were dirty. Dirty and torn. Well, so they were. I'd had them stashed in my shoes for safe-keeping. But they were still legal tender. 'Look here,' I told them. Serial numbers. These are the serial numbers. This money is good.' But they just smiled. They wouldn't cash anything. I could see a money-changer, they said, though they were all closed till the next day. So there I was, with a pile of money but nothing to spend and nowhere to go. And they were all beaming at me as though I was the luckiest joker within a radius of miles.
"I went to the coffee shop at the hotel to eat; at least they let me put dinner on the tab. I wanted sweet and sour fish, fried mixed vegetables, and yam neua.
"The waiter took the menu, looked at the yam neua I was pointing to, and said, 'Phet; phet mahk.' And he smiled at me. I knew phet; it m
eant "hot". So I said, 'Yes, yes. Phet Okay, fine. I like phet. Phet mahk, very hot. The hotter the better. No problem.'
"So I settled back with the newspaper to await sustenance. Eventually the fish came. Two people came with it, and they stood there smiling as though in anticipation of my reaction to this culinary masterpiece. They stood smiling at me and I sat glaring at them till they got the idea I wasn't entirely pleased.
"'Where,' I asked them, 'is my rice and the other food?'
'"Is come. Is come,' they assured me.
"Well, it had most assuredly not come, but I was starving, and eventually I ate the fish. Then the vegetables arrived, and, a little later, the rice.
"'Where is my yam neua?" I enquired.
"This elicited smiles of incomprehension; finally one of my retinue went to fetch the cashier or the maitre d' or somebody, who asked me what the problem was.
"Opting for succinctness, I said: 'I want my yam neua.'
"Now all three of them beamed at me, shaking their heads: 'Phet; phet mahk.'
"I admit I lost my temper, at this point. 'I know it's phet. I like blasted phet. Bring... me... yam., neua. And make it phet!'
"All to no avail. All I got were the smiles. Arrgh. The smiles. It can be enough to make you weep. I finally ate my cold rice with nam pla, with fish sauce, and went up to bed early."
I wanted to commiserate, but I couldn't see that what he'd related thus far was particularly harrowing, as
harrowing experiences go.
"But this sort of thing has gone on all the time, wherever I've been. The next thing I knew, I had dysentery. I was bed-ridden for several days."
He did look as though he had lost weight. In fact, he was about as emaciated as a big hearty type like that could get without actually being clinically dead.
"Yeah. That wasn't a lot of fun. But then I got back to Bangkok and met my Thai friends, who hadn't seen me since I went upcountry. Martin, Martin!' they all said. You look so smart.' There I was, one foot in the grave, and feeling bad enough I could hardly wait to get the other one in, and they were smiling and telling me how 'smart' I looked. 'Good. You've lost your weight,' they told me. Blasted ninnies. I was dying.''
Bangkok Old Hand Page 2
