Bangkok Expat Mama

The Dowager on Soi 2

This is the lobby of the Atlanta, an eccentric little hotel at the end of Sukhumvit Soi 2. Despite it's frozen-in-time lobby and restaurant (my Czech friend gasped and said, "I feel like I'm home[Prague]! This is just like home!" upon her visit), the Atlanta happens to be tech-savvy enough to offer free WiFi access to all comers. And they wisely chose a non-TOT ISP, which is why I've been sitting in their lobby this midday, nursing a pot of chocolate, with intentions of uploading Burma photos onto this blog -- something I can't do at home thanks to TOT's lameness.

But, to paraphrase Burns, the best-laid plans of mice and mummies often go astray.

I've got to leave in 15 minutes to pick up A from nursery, and how many photos have I uploaded and captioned? Zero. Zilch. Nada. Cuz I let myself get sucked into visiting other Typepad blogs I haven't been able to check from home in a few days thanks to TOT's...OK, you know where I'm going with this; I'm starting to sound like a broken tuk-tuk wheel that's just spinning round and round.

Maybe that's a good thing, though. I've spent so much time on political diatribes recently that this blog hasn't been living up to the "Bangkok" and "Mama" in its name. So today I'll try to make up for that a little.

As for "Bangkok", we've got the shout-out to the Atlanta. This place has terrific Thai food, as well as satisfying Western breakfasts, decent coffee, and dynamite homemade hot chocolate. The food is incredibly cheap for today's Bangkok. Despite the official hotel website's warnings that "outsiders" may not dine here or enter the premises, my friends and I have found that tipping generously (most staff are loyal long-timers) and a pleasant, respectful attitude (which one would employ anywhere, n'est-ce pas?) allow us access with no problem. I particularly enjoy lingering over a coffee by the pool, which happens to have been Bangkok's first hotel pool but, more relevant today, lies next to a lush garden inhabited by countless tame kitties and several tortoises.

Actually the kitties have free run of the whole place. No wonder I love hanging out here! (Note the furry bundle lounging on the divan in above photo.)

Rooms here are cheap, too, by this neighbourhood's standards. Friends who have stayed here tell me that the rooms are basic with a capital "B". At the Atlanta, however, the rooms are not the point. But after running around Bangkok all day, tourists usually care not a bit how fancy their room is. One comes here for the quirky ambience, convenient location, great food, reasonable rates, and the adorable cats who, in fact, run the show.

As for the "Mama" part, I'll report that apparently A's teacher has been teaching the kids (four-year-olds, mind you) yoga -- perhaps as part of an enlightened approach to holistic, New Age learning, but more likely, I suspect, in a desperate bid to settle a class of eight rambunctious boys (Mai, the only girl, just moved back to Japan). Yesterday morning A rolled out of bed and promptly stretched out on the floor and said, out of the blue, "N, let me teach you some yoga. I'm doing yoga, you see it? Now you do it, too, OK?"

As I puttered around with morning rituals (backpack? check! home-time bus snack for N? check! P.E. kit? check!), I could hear the impromptu yoga lesson continue.

"Flex, point. Flex, point. Flex, point...Now butterfly...Yah, N!...Now reach for the sky...Yah!" Giggling. "Let's do butterfly again."

So cute.

I probably won't have time to escape TOT non-Typepad world until Saturday because tomorrow will be flat-out chockers with mummy duties (helping out at N's school, the school Loy Krathong celebration, A pickup) then an interview for a freelance gig (the pastry chef of a four-star hotel, on the baked goodies they'll make for Christmas: Can you say, "free samples"? Mmm!). Burma photos coming soon...by American Thanksgiving if we're lucky.

A Meow From Our Sponsor

Greetings, ladles and gentlemice. No, those are not typo's in the previous sentence. Perhaps you are not familiar with feline humor? Worry not, for I, Devster Sinrod Walter (a.k.a. Devistrina, Strinachow, Chow, Chowgirl, Polly Prissypants, and the Duchess), am capable of employing human-friendly humor as well as my native style. I am, after all, brilliant.

You may be wondering why I'm posting tonight instead of my human guardian. To be frank, I feel the time has more than come for me to put in my extremely cogent two cents, or two baht, as it were. You see, I've been supervising Lyle's computer activities for nigh on eight and a half years now. I know good writing from bad. I can smell a dangling participle from metres away. And discerning legitimate email from spam? Puh-lease! I am a pro.

See my glamorous portrait up there? You might think it some sort of advert for the Google search engine. Au contraire, mon frere (ou ma soeur, bien sur). I adore Google; don't get me wrong. However this photo captures the je-ne-sais-quoi with which I oversee Lyle's desk activities. Notice the "I'm sorry; do I know you?" squint, the paw flung oh-so-casually onto the keyboard, the crown and ears placed perfectly for a partially blocked view of the computer monitor. Everything placed just so, in order for Lyle to remember to administer the ear scratches and belly rubs that any sane kitty requires, without annoying her enough to compel her to remove me from my perch.

But enough about me this evening. The aroma of tuna beckons from the kitchen. I must go investigate before my compatriots (Ramza and Fiona, who rarely take an interest in computer work -- those rubes) gobble up all the treats. I can abandon my post with confidence as Lyle seems utterly knackered and thus won't undertake any blogging without my supervision. It's a good thing she has a sense of her own limits. Whatever would she do sans moi? I mean, really!

Still Grim

Sorry, folks, but I made the mistake of checking Hurricane Katrina updates on the Internet before posting today. I had been planning on writing something kinda snide, sorta flippant -- either a potpourri of recent funny Thai-isms or some photos related to the To Ma'am With Love post, but now I can't countenance anything of the sort. It's too depressing. On so many levels.

Now that most of the human survivors are sorted out, at least for the time being, stories are surfacing about the suffering and, in too many cases, abandonment of household pets. As the happily enslaved guardian of three regal felines, my heart aches as much for the furry family members as for the human children and parents I mentioned two days ago. How can any of us safe in our homes possibly conceive of the anguish and fear felt by the separated families and pets?

Tap here to find out how to help the human survivors; tap here to find out how to help the furry victims, who can't speak for themselves.

Note to self: In case of natural disaster or garden-variety housefire, keep pet kennels in convenient spot near my home's most likely point of exit. Be prepared to 1. beat to a pulp; 2. threaten with forcible viewing of "Ishtar" until his eyeballs fall out; or 3. stuff vast quantities of The Washington Times newsprint down the throat of any official or blow-hard who, despite good intentions, insists I must leave said pets behind to fend for themselves. Just like my kids, they didn't ask to be part of my family, dad gummit, but that's what they are so I've got to look after them.

Ramza: Determination. ("I will fit into this tiny bed made for a kitty half my size, dammit!")

Fiona: Splendid isolation. ("Ahhh, I have this whole luscious sofa to myself.")

Devster: Relaxation. ("Nothing beats a metal filing cabinet for cooling down in this Bangkk heat!")

Nathan & Alec: Cooperation. (Big Bro and Little Bro have been playing together really well [i.e. more laughing, less bickering] lately. Note N's newly missing tooth! At left is Yota, our friend from the 12th floor.)

Meet My Supervisors

It's time to start introducing the furry creatures who figure prominently in our Bangkok lives. Wait, who am i kidding -- "figure prominently"?! Without Devster reclining, pasha-like, on my desk in front of the computer, how would I ever get any typing done? Without Ramza meowing at poltergeists or indulging himself in some spontaneous "attack the sleeping person's foot from the end of the bed" at 3 a.m., how would I know when to get up to visit the toilet for a nocturnal pee? Let's face it: The cats run my life.

Siblings Ramza (ne Rama) and Devster (nee Devi) were the first to assume this important role. Pedro and I adopted them from the Northeast Animal Shelter in Salem, Mass., during our 1997-98 stint in Brookline. The nicknames developed within a week of their joining our gang. Ramza is also sometimes called Ramzoni, Zoni, Zoni-Rigatoni -- you get the picture. Devster also answers to Devistrina, Strina, Strinachow, and sometimes just Chow for short. The imperiousness with which they survey their kingdom (i.e. walk around the apartment) would impress the next 15 minutes' hottest MTV diva. These cats are mega BSDs.

I'll always remember how Pedro's dear Dook friend Marc Singer (whose old nickname I shall not reveal here, after blowing it for him accidentally in 1994 in front of a chick he was wooing) said jokingly, before our first child, Nathan, was born: "It's midnight for those cats, man. They have no idea!" He thought Ramza and Devster would be benched in favor of the new human, non-furry arrival. Well, it's true that during the first few months I was pretty preoccupied with getting the hang of caring for the baby, but after that we slid back into the same old routine. And by the time Nathan was crawling and exploring things, the cats had a whole new person to boss around ("Stroke my belly! Now, I command you!") and snuggle up against. Of course this same new employee also enjoyed chasing them, mucking about in their food bowls, and playing with -- gasp! -- their kitty toys.

We flew over to Bangkok on Northwest Airlines because they had the best services for shipping pets, but it turned out we were able to fly with the cats in the cabin with us anyway, each in a separate Sherpa bag. At one point I was trying to doze and felt...something...furry on my ankle. I looked down to see Ramza's big green eyes staring up at me quizzically. Oh, hi, Zoni. ZONI?! I grabbed him and pushed the "flight attendant help!" button within 0.5 seconds. This cat had persisted in batting at his zipper, over and over, until the gap was open enough for his enormous Garfield-sized bod to squeeze through. The flight attendant brought masking tape for me to tape up his Sherpa bag so Feline Houdini couldn't perform a second act.

We reached Bangkok with two Sherpa bags stinking of pee, poo and vomit -- one bag taped up to look like it contained a deranged menace -- with two steadily mewoing creatures inside. But no worry, we had all the paperwork to prove our cats had all the right shots and were indeed healthy. What did Thai Immigration and Customs officials do when we approached? Nothing. We breezed right through, smelly, noisy kennels in hand. What a relief for us. But on the other hand, what if we had been smuggling in endangered species? Or were bringing seriously ill animals into the Kingdom?

Fiona joined our family last year in July 2004. She showed up one day while I was feeding the feral kitties who live in the car park below our building. (I've been feeding them a couple times a week during our four-year tenure here, so the whole troupe is pretty familiar to me.) Usually the babies downstairs fare well because the mommies nurse and guard them; the main hazard for them is the idiots who frequently drive like Mario Andretti through the car park.

But Fiona was tiny, weak, and apparently alone. I visited more often than usual, to try to see her mother but none showed up. In fact she was so lacking an advocate that when I lay down dry kibble, the older cats would hiss and bat at her to scare her away from eating. She wouldn't make it on her own, even if she managed to avoid the cars whizzing around. So one day Nathan and I scooped her up, took her to our vet, and the rest is pleasant feline history. She stayed at the hospital for two weeks while they gave her shots and medicine for the infection she had, and generally observed her to make sure she'd bring no illnesses home to Ramza and Devster. The vet assessed her to be about three months old.

Nathan named her after Princess Fiona in Shrek. She turned out to be a sassy little spaz, a good shot in the arm for our middle-aged kitties. How did we introduce her to the incumbents without starting a war? It was a sloooow process but it paid off. We kept the separate from her for a long time. Then we let them into her space for short, supervised periods (during which Ramza hissed like a crocodile!) -- but she was not allowed yet into their space. Then finally she ventured into their space for brief periods. Finally everybody was allowed everywhere. Unexpectedly, after his earlier macho posturings, Ramza became friendly first. Devster continued hissing (but not scratching or fighting) for several months. But as you can see from the top photo, they co-exist now in a manner that begs the question: When territorial animals can do it, why do humans, who have a capacity for reason and reflection, find getting along so damn difficult?