Songkran's Toll

An editorial in yesterday's Bangkok Post estimates more than 400 deaths nationwide related to this year's Songkran celebrations. The Thai government has said the number, whatever the exact figure, was in line with official expectations and represents a slight decrease from last year.

Check out this photo for a sense of what the roadway merriment is like, and consider that during the Fourth of July weekend of 2003, the United States (with a population nearly five times that of Thailand) had 514 traffic fatalities, according to the (U.S.) National Highway Traffic Safety Administration.

A Night at the Movies

Saw the movie 16 Blocks last night -- it borrows liberally from better movies, offers few real surprises, but is straight-ahead and unpretentious enough to end just as it starts to get too cute/clever/hammy for its own good. Should you see it? Well, perhaps not for $8, but at 80 Thai baht ($2), it's a great night at the movies.

Several critics have harped on the fact that the movie is something of a remake of the Eastwood-Locke vanity piece The Gauntlet, but fail to mention that movie was garbage. Remakes of Psycho and The Manchurian Candidate are crimes against humanity, but bad films should be remade as often as is necessary to get them "right". But don't get me wrong -- those calling 16 Blocks "gritty" and "intense" are off the mark as well. If you want a gritty and intense cop drama, check out Narc.

The movie has made $36 million in the States, which is probably two-thirds of its production costs, but the major studios seem content to cash in on DVD sales and TV rights when handling anything less than a "blockbuster". Meanwhile, theatre operators front-load more and more commercials into every screening and wonder why people are finding other things to do on a Friday night. If the "cinematic experience" is to remain something other than turning on the entertainment center in your living room, the players involved need to consider multi-tiered pricing. I would have gladly paid full price to see The Aviator, Batman Begins, or Munich, but take a chance on Lucky Number Slevin? No way. Offer a discount and I would have considered an evening with The Weather Man -- unless the plan was to gross only $12 million domestically.

Border Run

Made a daytrip to Burma yesterday to renew my visa. I made my first such "visa run" on November 26, 2004 -- which to me seemed like a long time ago but really isn't. I made regular journal entries in those days, but lacked easy Internet access, and so this blog went more than a year without a new post. The following is what I had to write about that first trip:

I’m in the Kingdom of Thailand on a tourist visa that needs to be renewed every 60 days. Under certain circumstances, one can renew in country, but stay long enough and you’ll inevitably have to make a “visa run” and exit Thailand, however briefly. From Phuket, a border jump to Burma is the best option, geographically speaking. Dozens of vans make the trip daily for under $30 per person (lunch and border fees included), and any travel agent in town can make the necessary arrangements in minutes. I had heard about a “luxury coach” option with movies and “all-you-can-eat snacks” but it was not running yesterday.

After a quick shower yesterday morning, I walked 15 minutes from my apartment building to catch my ride to Ranong, a border town a few hours up the coast. I was surprised by the amount of activity on my street at 5:45am; the same street is usually ghostly quiet at 9am. There seemed to be an even ratio of early-risers to night owls.

The van showed up 30 minutes late, but being one of the first to be picked up, at least I had my choice of seats. I went prepared with my lumbar pillow, inflatable neck pillow, and eye shades (courtesy of Asiana Airlines). I had lots of legroom and dozed off pretty quickly (for some reason I slept terribly the night before). A large bump in the road jostled me awake sometime later – but not much later, I peeked and saw the sky was just barely an electric blue. I then had my first impression of my fellow passengers. A guy in the last row was bordering incoherence, but I caught something about, “My friend, my friend. He’s from Russia. My Russian friend, from Russia, he do this last month. My friend.” I don’t think he was using English as a second language; I’m pretty sure he was just bombed out of his gourd. His cycle was occasionally broken by fits of wet, raspy coughing, after which he started anew. A few days ago I read a news story about a crash involving several foreigners on a visa run, one of whom lost a leg. Tragic, and my heart goes out to the victims, but I decided that if any limbs would have to be sacrificed this trip I would nominate Mr. Loquacious.

I slept as long as I could, listened to some music, and even read for a while until it got too bumpy, but I was soon bored out of my mind. Even the scenery was dull. But finally I saw signs for Ranong and minutes later we pulled up to the border checkpoint. Our driver deftly snaked ahead of a few other vans and saved us the hassle of waiting in a long line. Once the border officials had checked to make sure no one had overstayed their visa, we were back in the van and headed down the street. We stopped in front of a row of squat, brick buildings, exited, and were led down a long, narrow alley. I thought we were going to lunch, but was surprised to find the alley led to a small but bustling harbor. I had thought we were miles from the coast, but there in front of us were dozens of fishing boats (lots of wooden long-tails and several trawlers). Our driver directed us to a small ferry (about 45 feet long) and we shoved off without delay.

The Isthmus of Kra connects Thailand and Burma (aka Myanmar) and separates the Gulf of Thailand from the Andaman Sea. We crossed into Burmese territory where the Andaman cuts deeply into the isthmus. The boat ride was an uneventful but scenic 30 minutes. The weather was clear and relatively calm but the water was more than a little choppy. Looking westward I saw several islands, large and small, dotting the horizon. Beyond them is the Indian Ocean.

A crewmember came by to collect our passports and told us to stay on the boat while everything was processed. I’ve heard these visa trips usually schedule an hour to stroll Ranong’s Burmese counterpart (I later learned it’s named Kawthuang), but because we were behind schedule they wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible.

We rounded a large island and came upon a steep, protruding shoreline fronted by rows of tin shacks on stilts. We entered a channel between the island and shoreline and docked minutes later at the end of a long concrete pier where the shacks had given way to a modest square city block of drab concrete structures, some as tall as ten stories. A billboard at the end of the pier read: “Welcome to Union of Myanmar”.

I stepped out on to the dock to stretch my legs and feel the sun on my face. I leaned against one of the pilings and closed my eyes. The area was busy but oddly quiet. I listened to the metronomic ch-ug… ch-ug… ch-ug… of a larger ferry moored alongside us, combined with the sound of… flutes? coming from a temple on the other side of the narrow channel. My mind wandered until the wind shifted and began blowing diesel fumes in my face. I came to my senses just in time to see a uniformed man box the ears of a guy who seemed to be hustling a few of my fellow passengers. He scampered away smiling, but got a kick in the pants for good measure.

The Burmese officials did not waste any time processing us. Our passports were returned in less than 10 minutes and we shoved off. Back to Thailand we went, back in the van, and back to the Thai checkpoint for one final inspection.

We ran into some heavy rain on the drive back to Phuket. It really slowed us down, but I noticed that what in the morning had seemed to me unspectacular vegetation now appeared alive with verdancy. We passed along the edge of a deep valley and I could see specks of clouds drifting among the treetops. A few miles later we pulled over rather suddenly. I watched the driver as he splashed some water on his face before spitting violently out the window. He got out and appeared somewhat dazed (earlier I’d learned he makes the same drive every single day). I asked the (white) guy riding shotgun if everything was OK. He answered, "Yeah, I think he’s just taking a piss." I then said, to no one in particular, "Well let him do that on his own time." With a wry smile I glanced around for any kind of response. Nothing. Not even a snicker. Anyone? Anyone? Deadbeats, I’m doing comedy here.

The above more or less describes the three or four visa runs I've made, but I have since stayed away from van operators -- they drive like maniacs and jam their passengers in like sardines. Of course, the bus drivers are maniacs too, but they own the road. Yesterday's ride included a VCD double feature, the second half of which was Sylvester Stallone's "D-Tox," also known as "Eye See You". By any name, it makes the top of my short list of "worst movies I've ever seen". If you have a movie subscription service, or some other way to get a "free" copy, I could almost recommend that you do so just to see something that could not possibly have been produced by Earthlings -- no one in the movie speaks, acts, or reacts with any motivation that could be remotely construed as "earthly".

BTW, yesterday I learned from a Burmese kid who was trying to sell me fake Viagra that Kawthuang is an island, 104 miles around.

Shocking Revelation

Some of you know of my fondness for jog, the Thai rice porridge, and the machinations involved in getting my regular fix. Traditional recipes call for the (jasmin) rice to be boiled overnight before being lightly seasoned with anything from ginger to chicken stock. Happily, friends at a bakery and sandwich shop in Patong have long shared from their communal pot of lunchtime jog -- they might serve a pretty good meatball sub, but its appeal eludes them.

I never had any qualms about being a free rider until the day there was not enough to go around. I was just finishing my last two or three spoonfuls when the newest staff member (still don't know his name) found an empty pot when he broke for a late lunch. I was profusely apologetic, explaining that if I had known he hadn't eaten I certainly most likely would not have taken an extra serving (or two). He waved away my concern and proceeded to a nearby cupboard, where he retrieved a bilious green and yellow packet of instant jog! It's a Knorr product, for crying out loud!

My friends had never done anything to disabuse me of the notion that they slaved away to prepare each day's supply. Now that the truth was out, the joy of knowing I could finally make my own jog was overwhelmed by one friend's (Paula) fit of laughter. Red-faced and teary-eyed, she collapsed onto a couch clutching her stomach and struggling for breath until I thought a sedative was called for. Is my naivete really that funny?

On my way home that day I bought 20 packets at 30 cents each. Instant jog contains MSG, but reading up on the "flavor enhancer" has convinced me that concerns surrounding its use are overblown. At any rate, I will not be at risk of prolonged exposure as Knorr does not offer the product in the States, nor does it have plans to do so, according to the company's response to my online query.

Songkran

Songkran, the Thai New Year, snuck up on me this year. The celebrations are impossible to miss, but I was not adequately prepared. Traditionally, Songkran is a time for visiting family, paying respects at the country's temples, and washing sacred Buddhist shrines, statues, etc. with water and a mild perfume (not unlike rose water). Pouring a small amount of water into another's hand (typically an elder's) is also a common show of respect. In recent years that tradition has evolved -- some would say devolved -- into a nationwide water fight and unofficial farewell to the dry season.

To arm myself, I stopped at one of the big supermarkets on the island on the eve of Songkran, but was not willing to spend 20+ minutes in line to buy a 60-cent squirt gun. These WalMart-like megastores always draw a big crowd on weekends and holidays, but this was a scene to rival Black Friday.

As a result, the next day I was the one-legged man at the ass-kicking party. Contest. Whatever -- the point is I got really wet with no way to fight back until I ran the five-mile gauntlet of water-throwing hordes between my place and the store.

People gather at roadsides, in front of their homes or places of business, or anywhere they can supply themselves with water, and happily douse any/all passersby. Resistance is futile. Best to stop and allow a smiling face to pour a bowl of water over your head. Besides, even the kids show remarkable aim in targeting those who try to escape. It is not uncommon to have a paste of baby powder and water applied to one's face as well, mimicking the blessings administered by Buddhist monks. The stuff is hardly noticeable at first, but when dry gives the wearer a ghost-like visage.

When I did finally make it to the store -- soaked to the skin but thirsty for payback -- I found the prices on water guns had already been slashed. This was like buying a Christmas tree on the way home from Christmas mass.

The Thai government has made moves to curb the merriment, because the concurrent spike in roadway accidents and fatalities is too shocking to ignore. In Phuket, police roadblocks and checkpoints were widespread, especially at night, to crack down on drunk driving. And if by decree or simply tradition, water fights here were limited to one day (Thursday). I seem to recall two wet days of fun last year but my Thai friends dispute this.

Nevertheless, if world peace is achievable, its commemoration would resemble Songkran. That is until someone got water in their eye. And hasty words were exchanged. And if no apologies were forthcoming, fists would fly, by God.

BKK

Just back from a long weekend in Bangkok. On Saturday I took the Foreign Service Written Exam at the U.S. Embassy -- an oasis in BKK's urban jungle. Yes, that was a mixed metaphor. Just let it go. The FSWE is the first step in what can be a years-long process towards a job with the U.S. State Department.

By law, I cannot divulge anything about the test, but I will tell you that I thought it a good idea to be ready to write one sentence in Thai. I've studied the language on and (mostly) off for over a year, but delayed in coming up with something pithy until I was on my way to the test center. I didn't want to get bogged down in semantics, but wanted something at least marginally above the level of "Water good." In line at a 7-11, I came up with "Phuket does not have a train," and scribbled it on a scrap of paper. Thai vowels (more than 30) are tricky, in some cases looking more like bizarre punctuation marks, so I wanted confirmation. I handed the paper to the young woman behind the counter as she rang up my chocolate milk and asked her in Thai, "Is this right?" Bless her sweet face, filled with a priceless look of wonder. She stared at me intently before finally answering, "Don't know. I've never been to Phuket."

* * * * *

Rotiboy has hit BKK much in the way Krispy Kreme impacts new markets in the States. I strolled by Rotiboy's modest outlet on Silom Road and had to straddle the gutter to get by the line of people spilling onto the sidewalk. Something smelled good, but I resisted temptation and made my way to the skytrain station nearby. The elevated walkway took me directly above the shop, where I stopped for a second look. There were two types of customers: the first, idle passersby who just wanted to see what the fuss was about. Following people like that will eventually send you off a cliff. But the second type was people walking with a purpose, walking with deliberate speed to the end of the line with cash at the ready. This was now something I needed to taste for myself. The line was even longer by the time I returned but fast moving. I did not know exactly what I had paid 65 cents for until I walked around the corner and unwrapped the still-warm brown paper bag. Nothing containing liberal amounts of cinnamon and butter could ever be bad but the Rotiboy seemed to me a dressed-up hamburger bun, cinnamon-encrusted with a gooey and buttery center. Sad that they've co-opted the "roti" name. In Thailand, roti are crepe-like pancakes sweetened with fruit, chocolate, coconut, anything, and blow Rotiboy right out of the water.

* * * * *

Did a little shopping, but only a little. BKK was always a nice place to pick up factory seconds of name-brand clothing, but the inevitable has finally happened. Scouring the racks of what had been my favorite shop, I realized that the price advantage over, say, Old Navy, was negligible and clearly not worth the trouble of lugging extra stuff home. If you are a U.S.-based clothing manufacturer, you have my sympathies -- assuming you're not hiding a sweatshop of illegal aliens somewhere (but you are, aren't you?). But for all the political grandstanding and protectionist rhetoric directed at China, what's overlooked is that any slack in China supply would be quickly taken up by all of SE Asia. So enjoy your cheap socks, keep your kids out of the textile business, and don't get me started on a "comparative advantage" rant.

* * * * *

"Tsunami" -- the Japanese restaurant at the J.W. Marriott -- has changed, or rather shortened, its name to "Tsu". I suppose it was the least they could do.