Buhay Bangkok

A lot has been said about the seemingly infinite patience of the Thai. The phrase, “Mai pen rai” summarizes it all—“Never mind,” “No problem,” etc. Yes, I have always seen how they would just graciously smile during occasions when a Filipino like me would frown, or at least withhold a smile.

But on two occasions I got a first-hand glimpse into how patient they can really be.

Last month, I joined several officemates for lunch at the eatery near the Ayudhya Bank branch at the corner of Ploenchit and Wireless roads. There were eight of us, including a senior staff.

Almost all of them ordered noodles while I had my usual fare whenever I eat there: grilled fish and roasted pork. We were enjoying our conversation (or at least they do; I still comprehend little of their language to enjoy a conversation in Thai. I just do what I do best whenever I am in that situation, just display a slight smile and let my mind drift to other matters) when I heard the girls raising their voices approximating that of a collective shriek. Hhmm, I told myself, what could prompt these Thai girls to shriek like that?

It turned out that as the senior staff, whom we’ll call L, was making his fifth or so sip of his noodle soup, he noticed  something wriggling underneath the pile of noodles and fish balls in his bowl. Struck by curiousity, he plunged his spoon into the area in question and guess what he discovered?

A cockroach. Still alive. And kicking. Or at least, wriggling. Sorry, but I can’t describe what variety of cockroach it was, whether it was the common reddish brown-and-black ones we see scurrying about in the kitchen, the much rarer brown wingless specie that look like it is armored or something, or some other cousin of theirs. I was seated at the other end of the table so I wasn’t afforded a ringside view of the spectacle. I’ve asked the girls what it looked like, ditto L afterwards, but understandably, they could not—would not—provide an answer. But my imagination supplied the rest: There lay the cockroach, most likely the more common reddish-brown one—wet and wriggling—on L’s spoon. Tuk looked almost ready to faint; she had to abandon her lunch. She had the same kind of noodles as L’s, so it’s perfectly understandable.

The girls were all babbling as they tried to coach L on what to do, but he just sat there, oblivious to the world around him, transfixed by the sight, as if undergoing epiphany or something. Then he snapped out of his trance, lifted the bowl with both hands and brought it back to the noodle shop. A few minutes later, he came back, armed with another bowl of steaming noodles and amidst some sporadic teasing and giggles from the girls, resumed his lunch.

I was surprised by all this. Surreal, I think. If it happened to me, I know what I would have done. I would have flushed all red in the face, march back to the noodle shop with the contaminated bowl (with the still-wriggling roach, now back to the soup, struggling to stay afloat and struggle against death by scalding; Exhibit A, Your Honor), and armed with all the self-indignation I can muster, bawl out the shop owner while brandishing the roach-laden bowl and demanding for damages. Simply put, I would raise hell. This cockroach-infested bowl of noodles has threatened my health, assaulted my mental well-being, unhinged my emotional balance, caused me sleepless nights, blah-blah-blah, so pay me at least 50,000 Baht for damages or else I’ll call the tourist police, I’ll sue you and run you out of business. Yeah, that would be a good script; I ‘m sure I can come up with a good performance on that one. It would put the fear of God in the shopkeeper. However, the thing is, I’m not in the Philippines. I’m in Thailand. And the shopkeeper is Buddhist.

So, later on, as we were walking back to the office, I asked L, “What happened at the noodle house? What did you tell the shopkeeper? Did you demand payment for damages?”

“Oh, no, no,” he said. He wasn’t smiling when he told me this, neither was his face a mask of anger, though. It turned out that when he confronted the shopkeeper with the noodles ala roach, she just did the wai, said, “Kot thot ka,” took back the bowl and had one of her assistants give Jay a new serving. “And she did this even before I can get angry.”

“And would you?” I asked him. “I mean, would you have gotten angry and showed it to her?”

“Ah, no. It’s not good to show that.”

“So, that’s it? Just a wai, an apology, a new bowl of steaming noodle, and everything’s settled?”

He nodded.

“In the Philippines, I could have sued her. Or at least, raise a ruckus so she’ll lose many of her customers.”

He barked a laugh. “But it’s only a small shop, they won’t have enough money to pay for damages.”

It might sound at first that he doesn’t want to go to all that trouble and squeeze only a few Baht from the poor shopkeeper. But I can read between the lines.

For Thais, expressing anger makes them lose face. Their culture frowns (pun intended, ha-ha!) upon emotional extremes, especially negative ones. The solution to such a dilemma would have been to smile (yes, even a ngiting aso will do), let the party at fault apologize, make up for the trouble and everything is forgotten (or at least  pretend that everything is forgotten). Patience and self-control (remember chai jen [‘cool heart’]?) are two of the most admirable virtues for the Thais.

Sixty two years ago, Manila south of the Pasig River convulsed with the wrath of war. American forces, come to liberate the capital, slugged it out with thousands of die-hard Japanese Marines and sailors. The month-long battle left 100,000 Manilenos dead, with the city lying in ruins, said to be—after Warsaw, Poland—the second most devastated city in the world during WW2. Here are four books that will make us remember. 

1. By Sword and Fire by Alfonso Aluit 

This was published by Bookmark in the mid-90s; hopefully it’s still in circulation. Aluit must be commended for piecing together a blow-by-blow account of the month-long battle. His sources include transcripts from the war crimes trial of Gen. Yamashita; journals and diaries, and oral accounts of survivors and their relatives. Somehow, the printed word can prove to be more graphic than video. Definitely this book is not for the squemish. You just have to read slowly though, as the mass of material (and the dozens of participants’ points-of-view presented) can make you dizzy.  
 
 
2. The Battle for Manila by Richard Connaughton, John Pimlott, and Duncan Anderson

For history and military buffs, this is the book for you. If Aluit’s book is gut-wrenching and full of human drama, this book coldly analyzes not only the battle but also the political situation before WW2.  
 
Of interest are the detailed accounts of the battle from the points-of-view of the combatants themselves. Worth noting is the way the book describes the fierce street fighting to retake Manila and how the Japanese established their defenses (very in-depth, several layers, with government buildings used as strong points and various ship guns and anti-aircraft guns of various calibers [salvaged from damaged Japanese ships off Manila Bay] used as main defense weapons [can you imagine AA guns with bigger calibers than the German 88s firing point-blank at Sherman tanks? Argh!]). In fact, this battle has been made a textbook case study for urban warfare in US military schools (both West Point and those offering advanced courses). It also criticizes the American strategy for capturing Manila. 
 

3. These Hallowed Halls by Bro. Andrew Gonzales 

Yes, this was the book written years ago by the late DLSU president and former DECS Secretary. It details the massacre of several La Salle Brothers and families (who earlier sought refuge inside the campus) by deranged Japanese soldiers right inside DLSU’s halls, classrooms and even the chapel. Slash and dice with the occasional decapitation. Blood bath inside the chapel. Gore and gunfire. No wonder, many still swear they see a headless La Salle Brother stalking the halls of the university during quiet nights. May the souls of these innocent victims rest in peace.

 4. Manila, My Manila by Nick Joaquin

This superb book by the late National Artist for Literature makes history a delight to read. Among the best chapters are those describing the battle. Joaquin’s accounts of the destruction of his beloved city are based on eyewitness accounts. Short and poignant. Bookmark re-released a hardbound edition a few years ago. I still have a copy of the original paperback, launched in 1992 in my alma mater, with the author’s autograph, no less.

My wife and our two kids accompanied me to Cambodia for my first ‘exit’ in August last year (She made her ‘exit’ two weeks previously; the kids are exempted from it). We had to travel four hours by bus to get to the Thai border town of Aranyaprathet. There, only a small creek separates the two kingdoms. Across the bridge lies the Cambodian town of Poi Pet.   

To visit the neighboring kingdom, all I had to do was just cross the bridge after going through Thai immigration, then straight on to the Cambodia immigration outpost to have my passport stamped, and pay 200 Baht (For what? I wondered. I entered Thailand a month ago but Thai immigration did not ‘charge’ me for anything. The Cambodian immigration officers also did not issue us official receipts. Hhmm….). A few minutes later, I retraced my steps to reenter
Thailand. Parang nakakaloko, ano? This is done for formalities’ sake, just so it can be said that I left and re-entered Thailand.  Holders of a tourist visa like me are given only 30 days or so to stay in Thailand. If we overstay, there’s a 500 Baht penalty per day, or worse we’d be arrested and deported. Rather than go to a faraway destination (the US? He-he), we just go to the nearest border town and cross to Cambodia. It’s called a ‘border run.’ Grabe, nakakapagod. We left home at 3 am to catch the early morning bus going to Aranyaprathet, fall in line, cross the bridge, fall in line again, re-cross the bridge, fall in line yet again and take the trip back home. Well, at least after having a lunch of khao pad in a nearby ahan-ran (eatery). We arrived home late that day. 

If the Philippines is a Third World country, then Cambodia must belong to the Fourth World (if there’s one)!. Based on what I have seen in Poi Pet, Cambodia looked like it was eons away from Thailand. You can see it in their people. Whereas most Thais are fair-skinned and cosmopolitan and can charm you with their smile, the Cambodians (at least, the ones I saw; almost of them were farmers) were swarthy, wore old and worn clothes and have a sad expression on their faces. Life must be really harder on their side of the border. 

Poi Pet’s casinos and hotels (primarily catering to Thai tourists out for a good time; casinos are banned in Thailand) provided a stark contrast to the sight of farmers with their carts lining up on the dusty road to Aranyaprathet’s border post where the Cambodians have to secure a pass good for one day.  These farmers cross the border everyday to sell their farm goods in Thailand. They do so by loading the fruits, vegetables and sometimes a half-dozen handicraft products or so in carts. What is sad is that they don’t have any beast of burden to assist them in their cross-border expedition. Instead, they’re the beasts of burden! They pull their own carts. 

Some enterprising Cambodians, on the other hand, bring their carts to Aranyaprathet and rent them out ala taxi. Each cart can easily carry six to eight tourists. The poor Cambodians would pull their heavily laden carts, bringing their tourist-passengers from one stall to another. Among the dozen or so ‘Cambodian taxis’ I noticed a husband-and-wife team. As the man pulled the cart, his wife did the pushing. Lungkot, ‘no? Our own tricycle drivers in the Philippines never had it better. 

Reminders of the horrors of war were abundant in Poi Pet. I saw a lot of Cambodians with a leg or two missing; they were survivors of landmine explosions. Either they hobbled along on a good leg, aided only by a crutch, or limped with a prosthetic leg.  One or two landmine victims drove modified carts: They propelled their carts with a hand-held pedal. A beggar provided shock treatment to passersby like me: His face looked remotely human because of the extent of burns it has sustained. A victim of a napalm bomb explosion? 

I read that there are still a million landmines scattered all over Cambodia. Any farmer or his son tilling a field can accidentally step on one and boom! off goes his leg, If he’s lucky. The unfortunate ones have their bodies blown away. On the way back to the Thai immigration outpost, I saw a huge poster just beyond the cyclone wire that served as part of the two kingdoms’ boundary. Though the poster’s text was in the Cambodian script, the accompanying photos made the message clear: ‘Don’t engage in child trafficking.’  

Among the people in the queue were some Malaysian Chinese. They were chattering among themselves as they pointed at the poster and then to something at the bottom.  It turned out that there were two Cambodian kids on the other side of the wire, just beneath the huge poster. What caught the attention of the Malaysians was that those two children looked like doppelgangers to the photograph on the poster of a Cambodia boy cradling his baby sibling. One Malaysian took out a digital camera and took photos. They were so amused by this sight I’m not sure if they have taken notice of the expression on the faces of those two kids. Soon, it was my turn at the Thai immigration outpost’s counter. After the lady behind the booth stamped my passport, extending my stay in Thailand for 30 more days, I walked to where my family was waiting for me. 

Edited version of an e-mail sent 5 August 2006    

“I am envious of foreigners!” blurts Tang. She has been daintily placing several strands of senlek on her spoon with a pair of chopsticks when she says this. We are having lunch at an ahan-ran (food stall) at one of the sois at the back of the Sindhorn building. Bell and Pick are seated opposite of the table.

“Why?” I ask. What I like about Tang is her ability to speak her mind, not because she is less of a Thai but because her grasp of the English language is still so uncertain that she can not capture some of its nuances. Her still-growing vocabulary can sometimes make her sound so frank, a trait rare among her countrymen.

“I’m envious of foreigners because they earn more than Thais,” she explains.

Understandable, I say to myself.

In the school where my wife teaches, for instance, the pay scale has three tiers. The highest—30,000 to 40,000 Baht—is for the farangs or Westerners. Filipinos come in at second: 12,000 to 25,000 Baht. At the bottom of the rung are the Thai teachers—as low as 8,000 Baht. The disparity becomes even sharper when the work load is considered: Farangs and Filipinos work only from 8am to 4pm during weekdays. Thai teachers stay until 5pm. They are also required to render extra duty (on rotation) every weekend (including Sundays), while their farang and Filipino counterparts can wake up late for two days.

I try to think of an answer fast, one that would placate Tang and at the same time sound polite. I would have very much wanted to say: “You’re the one who has the degree in economics, Tang. Remember the law of supply and demand? Go figure!” But I know it will be impolite to offer such an answer.

“We have a similar situation in the Philippines,” I begin saying. “There are also many farangs there, expats, whose salaries are way above those of average Filipino workers.”

“Do you have plans of working abroad?” I ask Tang, even as I look at the other two to indicate that I also pose the same question to them. “If you do, then you would get wages as high as, or even higher than, farangs.”

All three said no. Somehow, they can’t imagine themselves spending years working in a foreign land. Visit Europe as a tourist perhaps, they would say. And many of them have graduate degrees in American, European and Australian universities. But work abroad? Never.

I am amazed at my officemates. They have a strong sense of nationalism behind that soft exterior. As Jay, our research manager, replied when I had asked him the same question two months ago: “Why would anyone [he must be referring to Thais] work abroad? It is so nice to live here [in Thailand].”

And, yes, I also envy them. Many Thais go to other countries just for study and leisure. They are not compelled to go abroad to labor in a foreign company. For close to six million Filipinos, however, dubbed as “bagong bayani ng ating bayan,” their sole purpose for venturing to another land is to seek greener pastures so that they may convey to their loved ones back home a chance to partake of the bountiful fruits of their labor.

mike test…one…two…three…

OK, so I’ve opened another blog. The first one was in a very popular website. Trouble was, I can’t access it anymore–the website simply can’t remember me.

A bit of an introduction first. You may call me Ronin. It’s a Japanese word that literally means a “wandering person.” In the context of medieval Japan, a ronin was a masterless samurai. In those days, it was a big deal for a samurai to have a master, for serving was his raison d’etre. Deprived of his master, a samurai has no more reason to continue his existence. Some commit ritual suicide, others turn to banditry, while some wander on, searching for a new master.

The word best describes me. Not because I’m contemplating suicide nor have I plans to shift careers. Neither am I unemployed. In fact, my employer here in Thailand is, unwittingly, gracious enough to lend me office equipment like a Dell PC with an Intel Core 2 Duo, plugged to a DSL Internet connection to boot,  to enable me to maintain a blog like this.

But I am a wanderer. Thirty four years of living in my homeland, with all its troubles, has sown in my soul a desire for foreign shores. Not because I love sightseeing and taking photos to show back to the folks back home.

I’m in Thailand, the Land of Smiles, in search of greener pastures for me and my family. It is no easy decision to make, leaving your native land, leaving friends and loved ones behind, but it has to be done.

It’s now March, my eighth month in this land of khao pat and toom yun kung, of the wai and ngam jai and chai jen. Unlike most of my compatriots, I don’t teach in the schools. I am no OCW, instead, I might be classified as an expat. Is it because I depart from the usual path and the saltmine I work in just happens to contain more salt than the other mines? Perhaps. But it’s just hairsplitting. OCWs and expats work abroad. That’s their common denominator.

I am from an Asian country that has been heavily Westernized. Thais–colleagues, storekeepers, taxi drivers–often mistake me for one of their countrymen because of my looks. Some think I’m Indonesian, Malaysian, Indian. A brave soul even made the joke that I might have originated from Bangladesh. It was a dangerous joke; it might have been hazardous to his health. My efforts at mastering chai jen (literally ‘cool heart;’ controlling one’s temper) saved him from a horrible death.

My education, perspective and cultural inclination has been influenced by what a historian once remarked as my country’s incarceration in a Spanish convent for 300 years and exile to Hollywood for half a century.

A coconut–brown outside, white inside–in the exotic Asian Kingdom of Siam.

That’s me.

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