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.

Where Is Daw Aung San Suu Khyi?

This is 54/56 University Avenue, in Rangoon (Yangon), the capital of Burma (Myanmar). From over this gate, during the early years of her nearly 17 years of house arrest, Daw Aung San Suu Kyi would address brave members of the National League for Democracy political party as well as curious tourists and foreign supporters. Back then, the gate used to look like this (thanks to Amnesty Intl. for photo):
During most of the second near-decade of The Lady's (as she's sometimes called by her country's legions of admirers) house arrest, she has remained behind these gates with only the companionship of her housekeeper (an unsung hero in her own right) and receiving monthly check-ups by a state-approved physician.

No wonder the gates are rusting away and foliage seems rapidly to be flourishing into jungle. Two middle-aged women are living there in isolation, trying to keep their wits about them as day after day passes with no end or change in sight. Who cares if weeds overtake the un-used garage? Basic survival and sanity retention, not keeping up appearances a la Hyacinth Bucket, must be the main focus for these two remarkably stalwart people.

Rumour has it that the junta forbid Suu Kyi this summer from tending the garden in any way, as if she or her maid had much energy at this point to hack at weeds anyway. Why would the junta care about the garden? Well, they have a track record with niggling over seemingly innocuous issues, for one thing, but also snakes and mosquitoes simply adore lurking in dense undergrowth. The loonytunes bastards in charge might think, what the heck? If decades of incarceration and isolation can't smoke out The Lady, perhaps a deadly viper or dengue fever could do the trick.

But at this point, is she even there?

The compound's derelict state alone doesn't prompt my doubt. But two other reference points make me fear for her whereabouts -- as if languishing in one's home for years on end, with nil contact with one's family or compatriots, is all that stellar either.

First point is that a Myanmar friend in Bagan believes, based on what he saw at 54 University Avenue while visiting Yangon five months ago, that she has been moved. He drove by in a taxi and noticed no security in front of the residence. Nor did the taxi driver hesitate to slow down so that our friend could get a good look at the compound. When he reported this to his Yangon relatives, they said that some people suspect the Tatmadaw have slacked off on guarding The Lady's house because she's no longer there.

Second point is our own experience when we drove by the domicile-cum-prison. Our taxi driver, who picked us up at Yangon's airport to take us into town during our layover on the way home, didn't flinch upon our request to cruise University Avenue. As we approached 54/56, we drove under a permanently raised traffic barrier manned by a single bored soldier (no gun in sight, although probably lurking under his desk) who gave us not a second glance.

Himself had a somewhat different experience six years ago. His attempt to stroll up University Avenue met with gruff resistance from automatic weapon-wielding soldiers. No way, no how was this foreigner going to get anywhere within 200m of Suu Kyi's gate...because she was there, and preventing contact between her and the outside world is the m.o. of her captors. So how else to explain the checkpoint's present lassitude other than...they've moved her somewhere else and are fiercely guarding that place instead? I never thought I'd hope that The Lady is in her house, because she should be free to go anywhere, but her own (decaying, decrepit) home is better than -- God forbid -- Insein.

Searching the Internet, however, has yielded no references to the Tatmadaw moving her. I hope my suspicions and those of our friend's family are wrong. If Suu Kyi is indeed still passing her days at home, perhaps the Tatmadaw merely relaxed the checkpoint after attempted visits waned due to so many years of hardcore prevention. Or maybe they decreased their visible presence after installing snipers in nearby trees.

Sounds paranoid? We're talking about the Burmese junta. They've thrown people in jail for telling jokes. They routinely enlist children to toil -- unpaid, as insult to grievous injury -- on army projects. So snipers in trees? Maybe not as weird as it sounds.

Tomorrow: Reflections on and photos of the lovely people we spent time with during our trip. The ordinary, regular, non-Tatmadaw people of Burma who are just like the rest of us, trying to do the best they can for their children and their community, scratching out an existence in an economy under perpetual slump, savouring life's simple pleasures and surely appreciating them more than do many luckier folks. (Including moi. What a reality check.)

Oh, Bloody Hell!

Pardon the language, gentle readers, but T.O.T. (that's the Telephone Organisation of Thailand) are testing my nerves again. So far I'm losing the battle to keep "jai yen".

Here I am, freshly returned from Burma, positively brimming with stories to share, bursting with political postulations (not least of which is, where the hell is Daw Aung San Suu Kyi?! What I saw when cruising past her house in Yangon makes me suspect she's under plain "arrest", no longer "house arrest" -- but more on that later), and fairly staggering under loads of photos to put in a bloggy photo album, but thanks to more T.O.T. idiocy, I can't access anything remotely Typepad (my blog's host) from home via my T.O.T. server.

Hence my sitting in the True Life coffee shop-cum-daytime-rave on Thong Lo. In an effort to project a uber-inter-trendy-lifestyle ambience, True have tricked the place out with Jetson-themed furniture built for midgets -- oy, my aching back! -- while they make sure the soundtrack can compete with Club Astra on a Saturday night. How can anyone get any work done around here? So harrumph-eth the 30-something farang lady who can't blog from home. The coffee menu looks intriguing, though. Next time, when I'm not in a hurry to fetch Master A from nursery, I'll try a Peppermint Peddy latte. (I stared at that one for a while before realising the menu means Peppermint "Patty", like the Peanuts cartoon heroine or the American sweet.)

Why am I so sure there will be a next time, during which I'll try the Peddy?  T.O.T. has blocked Typepad before, and it wasn't brief. Starting the afternoon of 19 Sept. -- that date sound familiar, old Thailand hands? -- and lasting for about 10 days, T.O.T. blocked all things Typepad from its servers. I couldn't access the host site to work on my blog, nor any blogs at all that are hosted by Typepad. My calls to the service center met with the telephony equivalent of blank stares. Then, after 10 days of alternating between tearing my hair out and paying for online time at Internet cafes with non-T.O.T. servers (i.e. True, KSC, Linksys, etc.), which really irritated me as we already pay a monthly fee for service at home -- then, suddenly, when I idly decided to torture myself by trying for the gazillionth time to access a preferred Typepad blog such as Dim Sum Mum's, I discovered that access had returned.

Well, let's hope that this time round's blocking doesn't last as long as 10 days...or else BEM may finally, indubitably go irrevocably, certifiably mad! Either way, from home if access returns or from this cafe/disco if not, I'll upload some photos tomorrow and divulge the highlights from Burma.

Until then, jai yen...deep breaths...ommmm...

Off to Burma

Luckily my decision to return early to Bangkok after a bizarre virus-y thing felled me proved a good idea. By yesterday afternoon I felt about 80 percent normal, and this morning I feel okey-dokey -- which is particularly a good thing considering I've got to leave in half an hour to fly to Burma, which, the way the Walter Clan do it, is not exactly a restful endeavour.

The beach scene, the wildly expensive luxury boat ride down the Irrawaddy, the lying-on-cushions-while-a-pukkawallah-fans-us gig, we don't do that. It's too expenisve and feels inappropriately over the top, considering who profits most directly from the more chi-chi tourism (i.e. the SPDC), and the kids would get bored. Nah. We ride around in horse carts and kick balls around with our little guys and local kids, wake up to see sunrise and then never get a nap because our kids are too jazzed and so on. So it's interesting and gratifying and inspiring in many ways, but active enough that embarking while ill would be discouraged.

Alas, Suvarnabhumi presents its own physical challenges not for the faint-hearted, as I discovered after my last-minute flight back from Khon Kaen. The flight itself took only 45 minutes in the air. Then we landed at Bangkok's new airport. We waited on the stuffy airplane for 15 minutes for a stairway to arrive at our spot in the middle of the tarmac (I had mistakenly believed that part of the point of the new, bigger airport would be to eliminate TG's annoying stairway/bus-to-terminal scheme); then, by the time my section descended from the plane, we had to wait another five minuted for a second bus to arrive as the first had filled up and left already. Once on the bus we drove for 10 minuted before actually arriving at a door to the terminal. So, in review, we needed 45min to fly from Isaan to Bangkok, and 30min to get from the plane to the terminal.

We passengers then dutifully filed inside, walked about 30m up a slippery, marble-tiled incline, and turned left toward two escalators waiting to take us up to baggage claim, taxis, etc. -- only to find that both escalators were broken and immobile. Sigh. Up we trudged.

See you in about a week. Happy hols, everyone!

A Home More Than an Orphanage

Reared and educated as an Anglican, I've felt conflicted about organised religion for many years because, as a glass-half-empty person, I usually associate the idea with sowing division, promulgating guilt, and forcing belief systems on others. But visiting House of Mercy in Khon Kaen, which was founded by pastors from an Assemblies of God church, reminded me of the lessons that Jesus and His spiritual colleagues have tried to teach us, the lessons that frequently have been warped and twisted beyond recognition by many people who claim to be spreading His/Their word, yet are doing quite the opposite.

But as much as Jesus weeps every time, say, a self-proclaimed "Christian" parent rejects his child for coming out, I suspect He grins whenever contemplating this little orphanage. This is what He was talking about. The loving atmosphere at House of Mercy enveloped us as soon as we walked through the gate into the garden. The 39 children -- orphans who not only lost their mothers to HIV/AIDS (their fathers usually have never been around at all), but also live with the disease themselves -- are blooming with affection and cheekiness like any kids their age. This place is a home, not an institution.

A Kiwi woman named Angela Reynolds leads a staff of Thai locals and volunteers from Oz and New Zealand. A volunteer herself, Angela calls her past several years of helping the children a "life-changing experience". The loving efforts of Angela and her team are changing, improving, I daresay extending the lives of these precious children. I saw one Thai carer gently rubbing a salve into a tiny girl's scalp, then tenderly comb her hair. Angela was like a human trellis, considering how often kids would wander over and ask to be picked up for a cuddle. It's not all hugs, though: Angela acknowledges that the teenagers can be quite a handful -- a universal condition, one that I'll be dealing with in about five more years!

HIV/AIDS still carries an ugly stigma in Thailand. Some locals, however, drop off donations at the gate but are too afraid to enter due to prevailing ignorance about how HIV/AIDS actually spreads. Apparently many Thais believe that these children were born with the disease as karma for bad things they did in a previous life; if they suffer valiantly this time round, maybe they will come back in their next life as, say, children without the virus. I see it as a raw deal, an example of the frightening randomness of human existence.

Unfortunately I had to cut this trip short because I came down with some weird sore throat/fever thing. We spent our first late afternoon, after driving down, with the kids and then had dinner at the Kiwi Cafe with Angela and Ros's friend Dr Thom, a women's cancer specialist from Khon Kaen University. By then, my throat was killing me, but I told myself that all I needed was a good night's sleep to feel fit as a fiddle for the next morning's art workshop with the kids. The next morning, however, I could barely get out of bed. I decided to fly back that afternoon because the prospect of spending all day in bed and then driving back the next day (we'd planned on sidetrips as well, during which I would have languished in the van in misery) seemed ghastly indeed.

Leaving early, without getting to bat around the balloon again with spritely Pam, or letting Oi chat with Pedro again on my mobile, and without learning more Thai from assertive little Som-O, wasn't such a terrible wrench because we're going back in December during the Annual Walter Familiy Exodus to Isaan. I can't wait to see the children again and to introduce my two to the gang. Already I can picture Nathan and Alec, totally intimidated by the unknown situation, finding themselves gradually letting down their guard and before they know it, having such a blast with their new friends that they won't want to leave when it's time. I didn't collect for this trip (but my Aussie friend Alisen did pass me two huge bags of goods, so I made sure the ANZWG ladies knew they were Alisen's donations, not mine), but I will for the December visit.

We are definitely signing up to sponsor at least one child. Each child needs about five sponsors, due to the high costs of HIV/AIDS care, but most of House of Mercy's orphans aren't fully sponsored yet. I can vouch after looking around, talking with the volunteers, and most importantly, observing the children's thriving behaviour, that sponsoring a child through House of Mercy will bring joy and good health to a deserving little someone. Please check out their website if you're interested.

While we're on the topic of sponsoring and philanthropy, my friend Teresa in Oregon is fewer than 100 days away from her journey to Vietnam and Thailand. This intrepid single mum and her two kids will be helping orphans in both countries. I admire Teresa's vision and her commitment to bringing up her children as humane citizens of the world. Somehow she manages to run the household, pursue her own university studies, host international exchange students, AND plan for the Big Trip East. Hats off to Teresa -- I can't wait to welcome her to the Land of Smiles!

Off to Khon Kaen

Tomorrow morning at the ungodly hour of 6am I shall leave my house (mind you, that means setting the alarm for 5am!) and meet up with a small gaggle of ANZWG women heading up to Khon Kaen to deliver donated clothing, toys, and other goods to two House of Mercy orphanages in the area.

We'll return to Bangkok by Friday afternoon at the earliest, and probably will lack Internet access until then.

I'll be straight with you all. I'm not a saint (obviously) and didn't know of this project until after ANZWG wrapped up its collections drive. So I never pounded Bangkok's steaming sidewalks, knocking on doors, seeking donations. But once Bron told me about it and said the van still had space, and because I love Khon Kaen, need to get out of this city, and would like to suss out the orphanages' needs in anticipation of future philanthropy (like during our Annual Walter Family Christmas-time Exodus to Isaan), I asked to tag along.

We will spend Thursday with the children, who are all living with HIV/AIDS. I'm sure spending time with them will be gorgeous and heart-wrenching rolled up into one. This weekend, I'll post photos and more House of Mercy information for readers interested in helping the kids.

Until then...au revoir, mes amis!

Bangkok Appreciation 101

(I wrote this piece for the 27 August edition of Guru, the weekly entertainment magazine appearing in the Bangkok Post.)

The smoky taste of satay fresh off the grill...a peacock-blue sari drifting by...a muezzin's call to prayer ringing out over rooftops...the stench of rubbish rotting in the heat. Would anyone dispute that Bangkok offers a feast for the senses? Love it or hate it, this wacky city stimulates -- and sometimes, assaults -- our sensory perception like few in the West can.

Certainly not the southern U.S. cities where I’ve spent this summer. Not all khon farang can visit their parents as often as they’d like, so I feel lucky to have this opportunity. Catching up with family and friends (and driving a car again!) have been extraordinarily fun.

But... (you knew a “but” was lurking around the corner, didn’t you?) by now, my last week States-side, I’m starting to feel a bit lulled into numbness by the same orderly atmosphere I’d often craved last spring while edging my way along Bangkok’s crowded, broken sidewalks or holding my breath as a fume-belching bus trundled past. Six weeks on, my parents’ town is starting to feel somewhat...antiseptic. Shrink-wrapped. Predictable. As bland as the hothouse fruit on offer at the supermarkets.

I’ll try to remember that the next time the fruit truck dude wakes me with his loudspeaker, hawking, say, pineapples and papaya -- fruit which, if I hustle my butt out there in time to catch the truck, never fail to burst with flavour. In the States, milk floats have gone the way of the dodo. How awesome is it to have delicious food simply arrive, unbidden but routinely, at your door? Not to mention the legions of street vendors whipping up fantastic snacks and meals along countless Bangkok sois.

This summer has proved to be invaluably eye-opening. I aim, after returning, to savour the city’s phantasmagoric pleasures instead of dwelling upon its defects. I’ll try to relish how Bangkok delights all five of the senses rather than get dragged down by how it taxes them. Every single sensory insult (like, ammonia reeking from a dark corner claimed by nearby motosai-taxi drivers as their loo) is balanced out by many pleasant instances of the same sense (fragrance of night-blooming jasmine, aroma of a bubbling curry, the eucalyptus “wake-up” of a foot massage shop, wisps of incense from a spirit house).

The ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle, who valued knowledge gleaned from experience, was the first person on record to classify the human senses of sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste. (I hadn’t known until seeing his Wikipedia entry that as well as philosophy, Aristotle wrote books on physics, poetry, zoology, biology, education, literature, and foreign customs. What a slacker.) I wonder what he would have thought of Bangkok’s festival of sensations. Perhaps he would have spent less time being brilliant and more time merely enjoying himself.

We learn about the five senses as school children (and about the sixth one as we morph into Bruce Willis fans). My own research leads to the conclusion that Bangkok can add “Sensory Extravaganza Hub” to its ever-growing list of things for which it’s a hub. Anyone disputing the claim should plant himself on even-numbered side of Thanon Silom, near the Saladaeng BTS station, of a Saturday evening. Or near the clock tower at JJ around lunchtime at the weekend. Or at the Flower Market before dawn. Or in Chinatown over the Lunar New Year. Or...

All right, all right, let’s get more specific about how Bangkok totally crushes the competition in the sensory department:

Sight. Sure, most of the office buildings and high-rise condos are drab slabs or impersonal, shiny Singapore knockoffs. But how much time do we spend staring at those, when closer to eye-level swirls a visual feast? Saffron monks’ robes, a kaleidoscope of flowers, vehicles covered with garish murals, clothing made from brightly coloured Thai silk, intricate fruit carving, the famous Thai smile. The khon Thai doing the smiling are an extraordinarily attractive people, thanks partly to physical characteristics and partly to high standards for grooming and fashion. Thai people’s beauty transcends social barriers; you’d find just as many staggeringly gorgeous smiles in a Khon Kaen coffee shop as you would in Siam Paragon. What I wouldn’t do to have a mane of thick, jet-black Thai tresses instead of my frizzy ’do...Well, at least I can enjoy seeing nice hair everywhere.

Hearing. The cacophony of hypermarkets and the din of traffic first spring to mind, rising many khon farang’s blood pressures to dangerous levels. But let’s not forget certain auditory treats. Most significantly, the National Anthem at 8a.m. and 6p.m. makes us pause, khon Thai and foreigner alike, to reflect on our good fortune to be subjects of or guests in the Kingdom. In between, radios, MP3s, and CDs galore spoil us for choice when designing a soundtrack for our lives. You never know when you might pass a motosai taxi-jockey strumming a guitar, or a couple of sedentary mates trilling a tune while watching the world pass by. When all else fails, the whimsical singsong of the ice cream cart can take you on a trip down memory lane to your own childhood (sometimes more often in one afternoon than you’d like, but mai bpen rai). Occasionally, off the beaten urban path, you can even discern the lyrical cry of various birds.

Touch. Two words: Foot massage. Well, actually, any kind of massage. You get the idea. And how about getting your hair cut at a salon? The best part is when they shampoo your hair and massage your scalp for ages. I had no idea the scalp has so many nerve endings until my first Thai shampoo. (For examples of sating one’s sense of touch in a more risque way, please see www.mangosauce.com and www.stickmanbangkok.com. I can’t speak to it myself, having been Sadie-Sadie-married-lady throughout my tenure here, but these sites seem to cover the scene in an unflinching and humorous manner.)

Smell. Culinary aromas and floral fragrances easily defeat their stinky khlong and traffic competition. When traffic fumes seem overwhelming, you can buy a phuong malai and sniff its sweet scent to combat the foul air. One can’t stroll far before frying garlic or grilling meats announce themselves. On one hand, these smells offer the security of knowing that delicious, reasonably priced food is always nearby; on the other hand, tempting street side fare makes it difficult to stay on task and not wile away the hours noshing. Which would be an appealing prospect, no doubt, were it not for the fact that I’d turn into a whale...albeit a happy, well-fed one. (How do so many snack-happy khon Thais keep so slim?! Gimme some of those genes, please!) Which makes a perfect segue into the last (but my favourite) sense...

Taste. Ah, where to start? Food, glorious food! Hot, sweet, salty, sour, and even bitter flavours harmonise in Thai dishes to make the most delectable of cuisines. From humble shop house bamee nam, to sophisticated hotel dining, Thai food is best in the world, hands down. Folks suffering from the affliction of not fancying Thai victuals, however, need not go hungry. In the mood for Egyptian ful? No problem. Longing for Ethiopian injera? Yes, sir. Dreaming of a Swedish smorgasbord? Ja, man. You crave it, you can get it in Bangkok. (Except DiGiorno’s frozen pizza, but who could pine for it when Central Chidlom’s FoodLoft and Sukhumvit Soi 33’s Basilico boast the best dang pizza this side of Napoli?)

British naturalist David Attenborough once whinged that, “Getting to places like Bangkok or Singapore was a hell of a sweat. But when you got there it was the back of beyond. It was just a series of small tin sheds.” How’s that? What did he mean, “just” small tin sheds? They may have been humble, but I’d wager that passers-by would see beautiful children puttering about, hear melodies of laughter and luk thung, and detect the enticing aroma of garlic and spices floating on the evening air. “Just” small tin sheds, indeed.

Free Upgrades for Suspected Deviants!

Heather pointed out in a comment to my last post that itinerant "teacher" John Mark Karr told his colleagues at one point that he "couldn't" return to the States. (She also kindly shared the info that I've been too jetlagged and preoccupied to track down, that Karr was working at Bangkok Christian College until authorities nabbed him.)

Well, that was then; this is now. "Couldn't" return morphed into not only "could", but also "Would you like some Champagne before take-off, sir?" According to the 20th Aug. Bangkok Post, an un-handcuffed Karr flew back to the States in the business class section of a Thai Airways jet; he even clinked his Champagne glass with that of his companion, an investigator with the Boulder, Colo., District Attorney's office. (The investigator's glass contained orange juice.)

Which taxpayers covered the cost of Karr's VIP treatment -- Thai or American? Either way, somebody got shafted (not on the scale of how much of U.S. taxpayers' hard-earned cash goes down the toilet every week in Iraq, but still...). Or perhaps the airline offered to foot the bill in return for the free international press coverage of their fantastic services. Like: Hey, look, even arrested suspected paedophiles can fly the friendly skies in luxury when they choose Thai Airways!

One thing for sure is, had the arrested suspect been one of many other nationalities, he probably would have traveled in handcuffs and not been offered the full range of business class amenities. Authorities still might have arranged for business class seats, in order to preserve peace in the jam-packed economy section, but I doubt anyone would have been offering him Champagne, hot towels, D.I.Y. hot fudge sundaes, etc. But in this case Karr's Yankness apparently trumped the fact that Thailand was voluntarily expelling him as an "undesirable" person.

If that's how an "undesirable" person gets treated, then they should reward all of us decent schmucks out here with first class tickets, live in-flight entertainment by music stars of our choice (I'll request Sting, U2, and Khaled); the entire new season's collection of D&G, Prada, and Lamb; personal chefs for each passenger; an original-cast presentation of Broadway's "Wicked"; and genuine Julian McMahon or Heidi Klum clones for whoever wants either. Then, Karr's treatment would seem fair. (But not really. It would still seem bizarre and inappropriate.)

How I (Sometimes) Feel

Originally this post was going to be a treatise on the recent developments in international air travel. But my latest "Savvy Lass" column in the Bangkok Post's Guru entertainment magazine prompted such an interesting response that, instead, I'll address the latter.

(For the record, as far as international air safety goes, you read it here first: By the turn of the next century, airlines and governments may very well require passengers and flight crews to travel completely in the buff and to submit to cavity searches before boarding airplanes. That would be the only absolutely sure-fire way to ensure that not even a crumb or drop of explosive material enters a plane. Perhaps, to preserve people's dignity, the airlines will let them don some sort of government-approved smock between the security checkpoint and the plane, but who knows? The mind boggles with the possibilities for weirdness.)

So my column in Guru was actually a recycled version of my very first post on this blog. I wrote that one while in a foul mood, fresh from a pleasant homeleave in the States. At the time I didn't care much about what people thought of it; rather, the blog just served as an outlet for my feelings, kind of like cyber therapy. This time, I decided to share the general views with Guru readers, but I tempered the original stance out of respect for my host country and to avoid making unfair generalizations or accusations. I made sure to say "seems to", "sometimes" and "some" instead of "is", "always", and "all" to acknowledge that exceptions exist to every observed generality.

The situation is what it is, and my feelings are what they are (though of course they fluctuate day by day -- sometimes, I'm like, "I love this crazy wonderful place!" and others, I'm like, "Beam me up, Scotty!"). Most published, English-language depictions of expat living in Thailand are penned by men. Perhaps that explains why, despite my efforts to write diplomatically and respectfully, this column took some readers by surprise and then angered them a bit. Maybe they're not used to considering how khon farang women might feel in a city that caters so much more obviously for men's (Thai and khon farang) enjoyment. Not that I believe my experiences represent those of all khon farang women. To that end, I described my own feelings and did not claim to speak for all of my western colleagues.

Here is the column as it appeared in Guru:

Sometimes I feel invisible in Bangkok -- especially back when I was still pushing my younger son around in a stroller. Were I mincing about on stiletto heels, wearing loads of makeup and belting out Shakira songs, I’d probably draw more attention of an unwanted sort -- but that’s not going to happen so let’s abandon that image, shall we?

Anyway. My point is: Even though Son #2 has outgrown his stroller, and despite an ability to clean up “real nice” when occasion warrants, I still belong in the shirt-decorated-with-spilled-grape-juice category. After five years here the situation is wearing on me. I hadn't realized until visiting the States this summer how much my ego always has been gently stroked by innocent everyday interactions with the opposite sex. Not my husband, but rather the people I enountered while going about my business in the outside world: the bagel guy; the UPS guy; a particularly solicitous waiter; an acquaintance from a long-ago workplace. These moments weren’t necessary to reassure me as to my self-worth, but they helped me feel recognized as an attractive person with ideas, dreams, plans...I mean unconsciously, subtly building up over time. The natural ying/yang of life. Of course, sometimes a bagel is just a bagel.

These “sparks” happen drastically less often for me in Bangkok. After discussing the phenomenon with far-flung girlfriends, however, I’ve learned that “invisibility” can strike women at certain stages of their lives, anywhere from New York to Vladivastok, whether or not they have a partner. It’s a universal phenomenon. I just happen to be navigating the “bringing up rugrats while trying to maintain my sassy, pre-baby identity” stage while living in the City of Angels. What circumstances here might reduce the incidence of ying/yang sparks for khon farang women?

Let’s start with my gracious Thai hosts. I’ve heard that many Thai guys apparently see khon farang women as too big, too sweaty, and too loud to find appealing or interesting. Such a view isn’t surprising. Many of us khon farang women do fit such a description. Language barrier also probably intimidates many Thai guys from chatting and joking naturally as they would with fellow Thais. (But according to my friends, an increasing number of happy hook-ups and relationships between Thai guys and khon farang women manage to flourish.)

Now what about the khon farang dudes? For starters, there are fewer of them than back at home. Aside from work, what draws the majority of male travelers? Despite the efforts of T.A.T., the top answer isn’t shopping, sightseeing, or excellent dining (although they could all draw for a close second). Many khon farang men who visit Bangkok seem to be some type of sex tourist, be they guys on a lark, stag party revelers, or long-term sexpats. These guys seem to look right through me. Or sometimes, downright away from me. Maybe I remind them of their partners back home, commuting to work or minding the kids while Steve and Johan troll the gogo bars. Perhaps my pale face and tall frame remind them of the harpies who drove them East to find ladies they expect naturally to serve as compliant sex kittens who won't talk back or nag them for money (wake up, dudes, the ladies are real human beings, not exotic Barbie dolls!).

Or possibly the fellows may simply be going about their business while I’m just extra-sensitive about my undefined role in a metropolis teeming with the flesh trade. Wait, not “possibly”; make that a “definitely”. I’ve definitely become extra-sensitive. The circumstances we’ve just examined seem to exacerbate my “invisibility” issues.

Many khon farang men clearly are here for work. But some “suits” by day -- single or already attached -- become sexpats by night. Honourable “suits”, however, aim to date or sustain healthy relationships with Thai, khon farang, and other women, bless 'em. But even though going out with the lads in Bangkok doesn't have to mean, “Bye, honey, I'm going out to pay a bar fine and then pay for sex!”, it frequently does mean, “I'm going to have some beers with Jim while naked vixens are writhing about on the glass ceiling above us.” There aren't too many bars with that feature back home in the States. Makes pole-dancing look downright quaint, doesn’t it?

There is a common language mistake that sums up my existential dilemma. It may seem like a trifling matter, but please bear with me: Many Thai people call khon farang women “Sir” in polite address. I can't tell you how many times someone has looked at me earnestly and asked, “May I help you, sir?” or said, “Here you go, sir.” I’m sure it’s because “Khun” is unisex; language instructors probably teach “Sir” as the sole English equivalent of “Khun”. How difficult would it be, though, to teach the female equivalent as well? Are khon farang women so inconsequential (i.e. invisible) that we’re not worth the extra few minutes to teach how to address us as the correct gender? “Miss.” “Ma’am.” There. Was that too much to handle?

Of course not. I know, I know, it’s nothing personal. The people who make the mistake are only trying to be polite and don't mean any harm (in fact, they probably speak better English than I do Thai) -- but considering the circumstances decribed above, some folks might empathize. “Sir” still startles me; I instictively look over my shoulder for a phantom man to be standing there. Call me unstable, call me melodramatic, but the word just makes me feel less like the me I thought the world saw before we moved to Bangkok.

(While trying to describe this gut reaction to my husband, I asked him to imagine how he’d feel if someone kindly inquired, “May I help you, Miss?” This strapping 6’4” man paused, and said, “I’d think they must be mad, because obviously I’m a guy...but then I’d chalk it up as a silly mistake and forget about it.” Interesting that he would project that the other person was mad, while I internalize the mistake. What would a psychologist say about that?)

One of my American friends finds being called “Sir” refreshing. Another one says she barely even registers it when it happens. I, however, shudder every time from the cognitive dissonance. It's kind of like, welcome to Bangkok, where many men expect Thai women to fit some fantasy ideal, and if you're not a Thai woman, well, then you're not a woman at all, sir! I’ve never relied on men’s attention to feel womanly or relevant. But keeping a healthy ying/yang balance in Bangkok poses a challenge. Perhaps I should consider the stilettoo heels and Shakira wig? Either that or march around in a sandwich board proclaiming: “I am a real human being with feelings, dammit! Even though I’m a khon farang chick and not allowed to vote in the October elections!”

So that's what ran in Guru yesterday. So far the email response has consisted of one hate mail (which the Thai lady concluded by telling me to return to my home country); two neutral mails, explaining why people use "sir" for women and for why Thai guys, according to the correspondent, might not interact much with khon farang women; and eight positive emails expressing either similar views or enjoyment of the piece. Naturally, my people-pleaser mentality leads me to agonize over the single hate mail instead of reflect rationally on the positive/neutral feedback.

I'd better toughen up, huh? No matter how diplomatic I'll try to sound, misunderstandings are bound to happen, as long as the Savvy Lass column continues to run in Guru. Oh, were that I had Oscar Wilde's quick wit to make some fatalistic, devastatingly clever comment right now!

Fields of Peace and Pain

I'm slowly but surely going through the photos I shot while in Phnom Penh one week before heading to the States. By this time next week I should have a photo album posted on the blog. Writing text to accompany the photos is much more challenging than I'd expected. Stan Sesser of the Asian Wall Street Journal best summed up the conundrum when he titled his Southeast Asia essay collection "The Lands of Charm and Cruelty". Perfect description.