Through My Viewfinder Pt. 2... And Some Thoughts On Time

Mist on the morning river in the Chonburi area

This is the second post of a series that will more than likely be another herky-jerk affair; Part 1 being some miscellaneous pictures from days spent in Bangkok proper; the enormous sprawl of city itself that easily covers over 600 square miles, and some of the outlying metropolitan areas that are almost another 8,000 square miles. 

Bamboo scaffolding on a
building in Chonburi

Each time I visit I try to venture out of the Big Mango, though; getting out among the good people of Thailand makes a trip so much more memorable... in my admittedly less-than-humble opinion, anyway.

If you're willing to step a ways out of your usual tourist comfort zone you're bound to meet new friends. Now closing in on 20 times in the kingdom I've met many, and the problem (we should all have such problems, frankly) is that even when I'm there for a month or so I have to be selective about who I tell about my intended trips there. There simply isn't enough time to catch up with everyone. I've long maintained a person can't have too many friends... just too many to keep up with. That's the case stateside here, and it's become the case there, too.

"There's a place I'd love to show you," my Thai friends write "and I hope you'll save some time for us to go there on your next visit!" Sometimes they'll send a link to pictures they've taken there themselves, sometimes it's just a crap shoot that I have to put my faith in. I've very rarely been disappointed. I guess that's why I've yet to make it to Phuket and some of the more regularly visited spots; those can be seen on countless web sites. I haven't seen a few of my friends for several years, but there's always next time. I hope.

The G.O.D. disco on Silom Soi 2, shortly before opening time. I've never been up late enough to venture inside. I'm a lousy dancer, anyway.

If you've been along on the ride here so far you've seen posts about Laem Sing, Chantaburi, Phitsanulok, Amphawa, Udonthani, Lopburi, Surin and quite a number of other spots; the stories can be found in the right-hand column "labels" listings, if you've got a little time to invest - but a lack of that is understandable; time is our most precious commodity, so enjoy them as your time allows. A yard-long post usually gets a "skip over" from me, so no penalty accrued if you don't have time today. Unless Google pulls yet another unpleasant shenanigan they'll wait for you.

There's comfort in familiarity, though, and I still spend time both in Bangkok and visiting the sponsored students on the outskirts of Pattaya. Most of you will remember the posts about the students here, so I don't think I need to re-hash those. For newer readers you can see some of them here.

My best Isaan friend has moved to Europe to work, another from Bangkok has become a beautician in Germany and a third managed to get himself here to the USA, where he now does a couple of business ventures; primarily real estate, but also maintains an online business. They were able to make good on their dreams, and while miss seeing them there, I admire their dedication. 

A pond and rice fields outside my country bungalow on my last visit

I carry a camera most everywhere I go, and I love taking photos of everyday things I walk, drive or bicycle by along the way. I lead a hectic enough life here at home, even though I'm retired (hence the dearth of posts the past few months), but I'm longing to be back there again, and going through my pictures can be a comfort. 

A tree full of blossoms near Hua Hin

Where will I end up next time?  Who knows... I sure don't. There are a few physician friends (well, one's a dentist) who have been after me to get away with them for four years now, but that may be because they'd like a break themselves. They invariably pay at least their own way, and so generously indulge this old fart who so often says "Oh, wait... pull over, would you? I want to take a picture."

It's just the time. It goes by so fast there.

Jake "Going For Broke" On The 4th Of July

Although we (meaning our own United States government) authorized the internment of somewhere around 110,000 Japanese-Americans living on the West coast during World War II, they thought it was just fine to allow some of these same prisoners to lay down their lives, fighting for the very government who chose to leave them out in some of the more God-forsaken desert areas available.

Most were nisei - first-generation Japanese, born in the U.S; grouped as "enemy aliens" (4C) shortly after the bombing at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.

All of the Japanese in Hawai'i weren't hauled away... that would have involved relocating over 150,000 - one-third of the island population - but they did imprison between 1,200 and 1,800 of them, over 60% of them american citizens. Those left "free" were subjected to discrimination and abuse from mile to severe.

Members of my own family have shared tales I won't go into here, but one I will share was a visit to one of their homes from the military who took away their radio and returned it with the parts that might allow a transmission removed. I guess macadamia nut farmers were a threat, but they were lucky, compared to many others.

While the internment to these "War Relocation Camps" was sometimes justified as being "for their own protection", it was, to many clearer-thinking folks, a knee-jerk reaction. Another fine example of mob mentality in many cases, in my less than humble opinion. A sister-in-law and a few cousins were born behind barbed wire fences, and many lost their land and the personal possessions they couldn't carry with them, if they were allowed to take much of anything.

The most notable regiment of them all was the 442nd Infantry Regiment that fought in Italy, France and Germany.  When I say fought, I mean fought... the 442nd was the most decorated regiment in U.S. military history, called the Purple Heart Battalion. The motto they marched to was "Go for broke," and they fought just as bravely as any others - perhaps more so.

Many decades later, my friend Jake Shimabukuro put together a tribute to this group, and used their motto as the title. Jake is a noted virtuoso on the ukulele, and I thought I'd give him a minor plug while tipping my hat to my late family member who was one of the heros of the 442nd. For obvious reasons I'm not posting a personal picture of Jake to the blog here, but he's both a good man and a fine looking guy. There are plenty of images on his web site.

Thank you Jake, and most of all thank you Art, wherever your spirit is today. When the "rocket's red glare" light the sky tonight, I'll think of you.

Happy 4th of July, everyone. Have a safe holiday.

A Friend's Renewed Blog

What I believe to be an egret in rural Thailand a few weeks ago

Normally you wouldn't see a post here on a weekend, but I just got a note from a friend who has decided to begin posting about life in rural Thailand again after a nine month break, and that's notable enough to make an exception.

I've updated the link to TOQ's Life In Thailand under the "Other Sites You Might Enjoy..." section in the right hand column.

It was a pleasure spending some time with him recently in Thailand, and I'm hoping he begins to share about the life he shares with his partner Choa on at least a semi-regular basis. It's a view of Thailand I'm sure many readers will appreciate.

TOQ's Life in Thailand

"Soldier Boy... He's My Little Soldier Boy..."

None of these were Jari's friend... these were soldiers in Hua Hin.

Back in May of 1962 a girl group called The Shirelles enjoyed three weeks at #1 on the Billboard charts with "Soldier Boy," a sweet sounding song at the time, but one that hasn't aged all that well, although that could be said for a lot of us, I suppose. Nevertheless it comes to mind when I see military men in Thailand walking around with their girlfriends or wives. It came to mind a few times when I was in Bangkok a few years back and heard tales from a Norwegian friend named Jari. He had met the soldier while inside a larger department store and - as strange as it may sound - they'd formed a casual friendship and spent portions of the past few days/evenings together.

In all honesty the relationship between Jari and the soldier was more one of convenience for the both of them, I suppose; Jari was a single man on holiday, making the most of the end of his  "middle aged" years - I believe he was 59 - and the soldier was deeply closeted but appreciative of the attention of an older man.

That in and of itself isn't so odd (did I just hear a few of you say "thank goodness" out there?) but it's a little less likely for someone on holiday to meet a person merely by chance and not as part of a Rented Admirer arrangement, i.e. online sites, bars, clubs or in some parks, if one is a little more cavalier (or reckless).  Nevertheless, it had happened, and the two had spent a lot of time together over three days.  It would end when Jari went home, and they haven't stayed in contact.

This is, to the best of my recollection (and notes) is the conversation he and I had on the fourth morning:

Jari seemed more cheerful than usual when he walked up next to my table and said "Good morning!" I invited him to sit and have breakfast with me but he’d already finished his an hour or so before me. “Have coffee, then,” I suggested, and he sat down across from me, leaning forward with a somewhat conspiratorial tone to his voice to report “I met the soldier again last night." He rolled his eyes as though he was exhausted, but happy.

"And?" I asked.  “Oh, my God, he almost killed me! He may not be 'out' to much of anybody, but  he certainly made up for lost time last night.” “Serves you right,” I laughed, “he’s probably young enough to be your grandson.” “No, not that young,” Jari protested “he’s thirty two.” “OK, maybe your son, then,” I laughed. “Either way, you’re probably lucky your heart held up!”

Jari briefly feigned a heart attack, laughed and went on: “We went to MK… MKB… what’s that place called again?” “MBK,” I said “Mah Boon Krong mall.” “Yes, there. Well, we did some shopping and then he took me to the most delicious restaurant nearby, I didn’t see a name and I’d never find it again,” he said, stopping to savor the thought. “Happens to me all the time,” I assured him. “I follow along and enjoy the place - you just have to enjoy the moment while you’re there.”

A portion of the interior open area at MBK Mall

I was nursing a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, taking small sips as he launched into an enthusiastic but discreet report of the portion of their evening back at the hotel. Evidently the young soldier had been without needed companionship for an exceptionally long time, and as Jari wasn't much for clubs and bars I suspect it was somewhat the case with Jari, too.

At 59, the pickings back in Norway for what would be “his type” were probably somewhat slim. Jari wasn’t what I’d classify as a sex tourist by any stretch, but he was appreciating - with sincere gratitude - the admiring looks of the Asian males here who can see beyond the wrinkles, so to speak.

"Where is he now?" I asked, and Jari replied "Oh, he was up by 05:00, on his way back to where he needed to be by 07:00 this morning. I came down to breakfast, went up to my room, did some reading and now I'm ready to head out and do some exploring. Do you have a favorite massage shop?"  "I do," I said. "We'll have to fill a couple of hours before my regular guy will be there, but I'm willing to go wander Lumphini Park beforehand, and I'll take another therapist so you can have the best." And that's precisely what we did.

A mild morning commute in Bangkok

That evening I rode along on the BTS a few stops out of my way to meet his new friend, who turned out to be a quite handsome and pleasant man. They headed off to dinner, I headed off to the movies.

Trip Report, Part 13: Saving Time For Friends

The Sanctuary of Truth near Pattaya

[This is part 13 of a series that may or may not ever find its way to a proper conclusion. It has to do with my latest trip to Thailand, and the people, places and things I encountered along the way. You can find the rest of the series by clicking here on Trip Reports.]


You probably remember me saying this before, and you'll undoubtedly read it here again: one can't have too many friends - just too many to have time to keep up with.  This thought came up again repeatedly on my last visit; several good folks were hoping to take me places they felt I'd enjoy, and I simply didn't have the time to do all of them justice.

Being just a regular guy I don't mean to imply that I'm all that and a bag of chips, as I like to say; I'm merely someone who's attempts to be thoughtful of and grateful for the friendships that have grown over the years, but it's a minor frustration each trip. More for them than myself, I suppose, but I don't like to disappoint people.  I'm sure many of you understand.

When the rubber slipper's on the other foot I like to drag people to Yosemite National Park, so it's only fair I go along with climbing the 611 stairs up to see the Erawan Cave, even if I might not do so traveling on my own. In fairness, though, I'd miss a lot if I didn't.

Many Thai work long hours, and often six days a week. It's only gracious of us as visitors to show some appreciation for the extra efforts they make to exhibit some pride in their country and locale, wouldn't you agree?  I mean, if it were a nine-hour drive to see the country's largest ball of string off up on a hillside in Nakhon Ratchasima I might try to adjust the plans slightly, but who knows?

This past trip a friend had asked if I'd saved any time for him to take me somewhere, and this time I had. My only request was that it be somewhere off the well-beaten farang tourist path and that it not be scheduled with so many side trips that there wasn't an hour or two to read, catch up on notes and - with any luck at all - an afternoon nap. 

As a warm-up before heading to some mystery location he wanted to surprise me with we did a quick half-day trip to see Prasat Sut Ja-Tum (the Sanctuary of Truth) just outside of Pattaya, which you can see in a couple of panorama pictures today.

I'll write more about the place next time, as there's quite a lot to see there and I don't have the rest of the photos prepared yet.

A small portion of the Sanctuary of Truth

Home Again, Home Again - Jiggety Jog

While it's been a better month in Thailand than some visits here over the years, my time has again drawn to a close and it's time to gather my stuff together, sit on suitcases to make everything fit and do some final catching up by phone with the friends I couldn't make time for this trip.

My list of friends here in this magnificent place continues to grow, and the camaraderi I share with them - much like the guys above - is something I value a great deal.  Thank goodness for email and skype to fill the time until I'm again Thailand-bound.

As is usually the case I expect to have my internal clock knocked for a loop as I jump a dozen time zones and the International Dateline, but it's my plan to be back posting by Monday from the US of A.  I never look forward to the butt-numbing 20+ hours of travel home, but there's something compelling about being in my own bed, and that's where I'll catch up on sleep this weekend.

I hope you enjoy your weekend, whatever it is you end up doing.

The Vacation Plans Of One Excited Bunny

Panoramic view from the Bangkok Arts and Cultural Center

In an email I'd sent to my best female friend there I was going on about things I'd planned for my next visit, and her reply began "Who's an excited bunny, then?"  Having never heard the phrase before it made me laugh, but she was 100% correct: at about two weeks from my flight date I was one excited bunny.

Although I'm not two weeks away from my departure this time - closer to six, unfortunately - I've already begun to count the days, and if I were a small child again I'd probably be pestering my mother all too frequently how many more days there were left until I got to go, rather like the ageless child request "are we there yet?"

As usual - and despite my better judgement - I've again chosen to repeat the same actions and expect different results and have overbooked my schedule, figuring that all is going to go smoothly and on schedule in a country where the people and culture overall rarely succeed on either level.  That's a generalization, obviously, but it's not all that far off the mark.

Part of that is their overall laid-back mai pen rai attitude, and some of it is just an inherent part of the individuals themselves.  "Hawaiian time," "Filipino time," "Mexican time," "Tropics time" - I've learned to adjust to them all, so "Thai time" doesn't really bother me, and I'd suggest you not let it bother you, either.  Schedule the extra time into your day and you'll keep your systolic/diastolic numbers in much better check. Losing your temper in most any situation will cause you to lose face, and that's not something you want to do there.  There are a few other stories about that, if you'd care to reference the thought: "The Golden Rule vs the Ugly Americans", "Keeping a Cool Heart #1" and "Keeping a Cool Heart #2".

Planning too many things in a short visit has bitten me on the butt more than a few times, but something's fallen off the list almost as often and I end up with idle time anyway, just not usually when I've planned it.

I'll be trying some new places to stay this trip and again getting myself out of Bangkok and Pattaya, although calling on the sponsored students will take a week of my time, and that's more than enough of Pattaya for me, truth be known. There's still so much more of the country (and surrounding countries) I'd like to explore. With the help of a Thai friend I've booked some nights at a beach resort that few Westerners go to and will be again outside of Bangkok proper to explore the temples and area in a suburb where a good friend now works.

Not all of my friends know I'll be in the area yet because there won't be enough time to see them all as I'd like to, and the best I'll probably manage with some of them is phoning to say "Hey, I'm here - how about dinner tonight or tomorrow?"

It's not the ideal way to socialize, but sometimes it's the best I can do with the precious few weeks I'll be there and thankfully most of them are understanding about it.  Over the years some have dropped off of the list after one of those "you never have time for me" kind of conversations, but again, thankfully, most say "Mai pen rai - see you next trip!"  Those are the ones I do see next time - come hell or high water.

Anyway. . .  the countdown begins.

As Rare As Hen's Teeth 1: Expat Requests

"Proper chocolates" are a desired commodity among many expats. In fact, I've never noted it not being greatly appreciated.

The last few trips friends there have asked me to bring them coffee beans, sharp cheddar cheese and what they call "proper chocolate", something that will actually melt in your mouth as opposed to the waxy warm-climate chocolate that's offered for sale in Thailand.

The coffee requests have surprised me because there are several chains there that do quite a trade in it, including that green-colored place based in Seattle that I do my level best to ignore wherever I go.  I'd rather go without coffee than support those folks, and personally I put them just a notch below that clown's hamburger chain.  My best friend grew up on a coffee farm and thinks they over-roast their beans.  "Why would anyone want burnt coffee?" is the question I get from them, and I don't have an answer for that.  Anyway, the topic isn't my coffee bean preferences, it's things that would be welcomed by expats and some Thai folks. . . and a pound or two or Peet's coffee (or another quality brand) have always hit a home run with folks there.  The person's favorite brand of tea may not be available there, either, and would be a light and welcome gift.

Hot dogs, aside from what pass as sausages in Thailand, are something expats have problems finding there, and there still seems to be an ongoing debate on a few forums regarding what constitutes a "real" pastrami sandwich. Some of this is just quibbling on details from personal preferences, but a decent hot dog truly isn't all that common, from my experiences, anyway.

Fresh and/or perishable items are a challenge, but if you stop and think about it you'll probably find a way; necessity being the mother of invention, and all that.  Being that some of you will be seeing friends the first or second day after arriving you can care for things long enough to get them there safely, as I have.

Cheese, for example. After doing some online research without much luck I called a cheese processing company and explained the challenge. The good folks at Tillamook to the North of me assured me that as long as the brick was still sealed, kept as cold as possible until going into my suitcase (wrapped in some clothes as insulation) that it would keep just fine for at least 36 hours, which was much more than enough time for me to get from my front door to my room in Thailand, where it went into the room's refrigerator.  The next day there were smiles all around the office when friends found out there was sharp cheddar cheese in the break room. Two full pounds of it didn't last the day, as I recall.  By the way, freezing cheese to take along changes its consistency when it's thawed, and I wouldn't recommend it.

The Transportation Security Administration (TSA) didn't know quite what to make of it, and probably thought the worst because when I opened my bag in Thailand I found the standard notice saying "we have opened your luggage and inspected the contents," which I've gotten somewhat used to finding. If I were looking at a screen and saw something dense the size of a brick I'd probably be interested in seeing what it was, too.

Internet image, not mine

The first time my luggage was hand inspected on the way to the plane was when I was taking four Magic 8-balls to the students I sponsor there, and those items all lined up in a row aroused some curiosity, too. Why 8-balls? See the post from Friday the 13th - or the one about joking about death on a song taew in Chiang Mai.

My notice hadn't been personalized like the one a woman got advising her to "get your freak on" that was in the news a while back (the resolution for that instance is noted by the TSA here), but it gives you a kind of odd feeling to think someone's been going through your things.  Unfortunately, it's all part of travel now.

But I'm off topic. Sorry.

Chocolate - at least, the style we're used to in the West - melts too easily to be practical for regular distribution there, and while you can buy the same brands they don't usually have the mouth feel of the creamier style you're more than likely used to.  Sees candies is a favorite with one of my best female friends there, and I make a habit of taking her a pound or two each visit. She's an expat from the United Kingdom and provides me with so much help when I'm there that she's well worth the effort.  When I arrive at my room there I put the box into the refrigerator and it holds just fine.

Another good friend I'd taken a box to left it open to share with their office mates while we went to lunch, and the photo up top today shows how it looked when we returned.  At least they had the decency not to poke a hole in the bottom to see what the filling was and then put it back - with any that were left, anyway.

A commodity that isn't difficult to find but is somewhat expensive is peanut butter.  There's a story from way back about my visit to a Thai prison that tells more about the sticky stuff, and if you know a PB-aholic they may be quite pleased with a large container of Skippy Super Chunk.

Another somewhat pricey item in Thailand is beef jerky.  I've had a standing request for that for some time now.

Specific spices and herbs have been requested, too.  Some prepared concoctions for soup, dip and the likes can hit a familiar place, too, but those are more personalized and you'd need to ask the recipient in advance.  Goodness knows they go out of their way often enough to help we visitors - it seems a small thing to do to show how they and their help are appreciated.

That's a start.  When we come back to the topic another time I'll share some things my Thai friends are always happy to see.

Is there something you or friends there have trouble finding that you'd care to share with us?  Leave a comment, if you would.

Home Again, Home Again... Jiggety Jog

Autumn leaves along a creek in Oregon - somewhat past their prime, but still a colorful reminder of the passing of another season.

I'm home again in California, just in time to make preparations for the U.S. holiday of Thanksgiving this coming Thursday, when family and friends will again gather together here in my home. I only had time to  be online once or twice over the last week, but thanks to those who checked in and/or sent emails. I'll reply to them all as time allows.

So... where was I for a week?  Let me explain...

Since having been bitten by the travel bug at an early age I'd always been one to jump at the chance to take what the younger generation often calls a "road trip"; loading a few things into the car and taking off on short notice for points unknown. At my age today I accept that those days are far behind me, though. Today a journey from home takes some planning and forethought.

It's not that I have to notify caregivers and next of kin where I'm going, or that I have to make sure there are enough maintenance prescriptions and adult diapers on hand to leave home, but life in and of itself graces me with responsibilities and obligations that don't allow the spontaneity of my youth, when I thought nothing of deciding at nine o'clock in the evening to call a friend and say "Hey, want to drive down to San Diego tonight?", arriving in time to have breakfast and wander around in the zoo there when it opened.

WHY  I still remember those 12-hour death marches I'll never understand; far too many of us thought we were Hunter S. Thompson back in those reckless days, fueling ourselves with higher octane substances than we'd put into the gas tank, wear and tear to our bodies (and brain cells) be damned. Some foolish souls still do, but thankfully that's their problem - and they're welcome to it.

The brief trip that kept me away from posting for a week was a somewhat bittersweet journey to visit a few friends I'd been meaning to see since the late Spring. One, although still able to get about on his own is closing in on 90 years old, and beginning to show signs of it that he'd dodged for the last few years. Too far away now for our twice-weekly visits I noticed a dramatic change in him when I saw him last week, and it was unavoidable to think that I may well not see him again, at least as he's been the many years I've known him.

Trees in Washington state, blazing with color in a final hurrah before dropping their leaves for the Winter

At my urging he talked a great deal about his childhood, his military years and the rest of his life as someone who dealt with being gay for many decades before being able to accept it. I did my best to make hasty written and mental notes as best I could. In the evening I scribbled them down when I returned to my room at the home of a former "friend with benefits", long since become merely a good and trusted friend.

My elderly friend spoke at length about a world that fortunately I've only read about: the Pre-Stonewall days I'd heard about from other gay men only a generation older than myself; the ones who truly had no choice but to live in secrecy and fear. He still speaks of those days in hushed tones, as though someone moving their walker slowly past his door might hear him. When those younger than I ask why he's so private about it I've taken to saying that he's an "Old School" gay - a term I use with nothing less than full respect.

Somewhere around 60 years ago he dutifully followed tradition, married a woman and had a child that is still probably the brightest spot in his life. 40 years ago he buried the same woman after a sudden illness took her, leaving him a single father - a challenge he rose admirably to. Finally, 20 years ago - nearing his 70th birthday - he met a man that was to become his partner for the next 16 years, until illness took him a handful of years ago. For those of you who feel you'll never find that special someone past the age of 30, please take note of that.

Now he spends his days reading, taking walks and reflecting with no small amount of wonder back over the span of years he's been around. "I don't mean to sound maudlin or depressed," he said to me "but I've lived a good life, overall. A good life. If you told me I'd simply go in my sleep tonight and wouldn't wake up in the morning I'd be okay with that. I've traveled, I've learned many things, I've loved and I've been loved. I've experienced so much - what more could anyone really ask for?"

I can only hope that my thinking mellows to match his as I go along... assuming, of course, that I'm blessed with the same longevity and relatively good health he's had.

It was an emotional farewell before I headed back home to California. For many years I'd have seen him and his partner for an hour or two twice a week - and then him alone for five years past that - but circumstances took him North to be closer to his daughter, so other than phone visits this was the first time we'd talked in person for eight months.

Although it went unspoken I think we both realized that this may well have been our last few days together. For now, though, there's still the comfort in knowing that I can call and have him answer, always beginning the conversation with "I'm so glad you called."

Rain drops early one morning in Seattle - frozen overnight on the back of a leaf.

Saying That Final Farewell - Again

Many of you who share middle-to-later middle age with me have already had to work through personal loss on a number of levels: family, partners, lovers, friends, co-workers, and the likes.  We all  lost far too many good spirits in the first relentless waves of AIDS in the 1980s and 1990s, in addition to the natural losses from age-related natural causes, accidents and other diseases, such as cancer.

Looking back one day some years back I realized that over a period of about 18 months I'd attended a funeral or memorial on an average of one every six weeks, and regardless of how many we endure they never seem to get any easier.

Another good friend has passed away, and I'm feeling the loss today. He wasn't a perfect person, but few of us are anywhere near that.  He did love life, his partner of many years, his business - and Thailand.

The flame from yet another candle flickers and goes out, but the thin ribbon of smoke it leaves behind lengthens, and rises toward heaven.

September 11th: Remembering A Friend

A photo of Mark, taken in my living room in early February 1990

There are two things about today's post that are out of character for me AND for Bao-Bao's Blog: 1) it has nothing whatsoever to do with Thailand, and 2) it's pretty rare I share much of anything from my personal life. However, this 9th anniversary of my friend's death on 9/11 has been more on my mind than others, so I thought I'd share the following as "writing therapy", maybe taking away some of its power.

Remembering my friend Mark Bingham

On Tuesday, September 11, 2001 at 7:10 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time, a United Airlines jetliner carrying my friend Mark Bingham and 43 others ploughed into a field in rural Pennsylvania, joining the thousands who became innocent victims over an almost incomprehensible week of horror, intensely emotional moments and unbelievable tragedy and loss.

Grief is a somewhat personal thing; everyone deals with it in different ways to different degrees. While I also lost two co-workers who met their fates aboard the first plane that slammed into the World Trade Center tower I was not nearly as close to them as I was to Mark and I came to terms with losing them far more easily. I am still today saddened when I think how I lost my friend Mark.

The day after the initial tragedy I was shocked to hear he was gone. I saw his picture on the news; the "gay rugby player from San Francisco" who had phoned his mother from United flight #93 to say he and some others were going to try to stop the people who had hijacked their plane. From all reports pieced together after that call, it's apparent that they did - but they (and those they left behind) paid a dear price for it.

I hadn't seen Mark since his college days, a decade before - but there he was, in a graduation cap and gown: that big grinning face of his filling my TV screen. For weeks afterward I had those “memory flashes” I usually have after losing someone I’ve felt close to at one time or another in my life. As scatterbrained and forgetful as I can be, I certainly had a number of them of Mark, and for weeks wished I could have had just one more of his wonderfully strong lift-you-off-the-floor hugs. Not so much for my own comfort (although I'd have taken that, too) but that it would mean there'd been some mistake and he was still alive and living life to its fullest, as was his way.

I first met Mark in the beginning of 1990, while struggling through a very dark year of my own life. In an attempt to get out of myself and do some good for someone else (something I’ve always found to be beneficial when I’m depressed) I’d placed a personals ad in the "Gay" section of a local free weekly newspaper under an old pen name, seeking new friends and people who could use a mentor or someone to talk to. Not liking how the paper charged to reply to ads by voicemail I’d opted out of that and listed my post office box instead.

This was years before email was common, and I was surprised when over 100 people sat down and wrote multi-page responses to that 20-word ad. I answered every letter, listened while many talked on the phone (some completely falling to pieces at being able to finally share their "gay" thoughts), met a few dozen in person for coffee or a meal and still count a half-dozen or so as friends to this day. One shared life with me for over six years.

Mark's letter told a story that will be familiar to many reading this today: he felt very alone in his "closet" and said if anyone in his family found out about his homosexuality that he'd probably have to kill himself. We spent many, many afternoons talking about this over the next six or seven months until he went back to college and - my advice no longer needed as often - we began to drift apart. He charged into his future, hoping (as many of us do) that he'd find a way to be "successful at something" as he put it, and I took tentative steps into what would become a relationship with the person I mentioned in the previous paragraph.

I am so very thankful that I was able to help Mark along and encourage him to share his secret with people little by little until he felt ready to really tell the ones he feared telling the most. I was so glad to hear at one of his memorials that he finally did, near the end of his college days. I can only imagine the help he must have been to others he met past that, sharing what I had shared with him. I have heard so much about what a positive and supportive man he was.

Within three years of us losing touch with each other he’d graduated from UC Berkeley, having been three-time National Rugby Champion with his teammates there. After graduation he went on to acheive success with his own public relations firm with offices in San Francisco and New York. How strange that it was while coming home after business and a friend’s birthday party in New York that he unknowingly made the choice to board a plane scheduled by a handful of madmen to be a suicide mission. I’d guess most people he left behind would have been less surprised to have had him lost to running with the bulls in Pamplona - as he'd done just months before - or doing something more crazy than simply boarding an airliner for home.

At his memorial, Mark’s former partner Paul described him as being a bit like a Labrador retriever, bounding through life. I had to smile when I heard that, because it so well fit the young man I knew. Oftentimes Mark would ride his bicycle over to visit and I’d always hear him bounding up the stairs well before he’d knock on my door and I’d open it to collect that big hug he was so generous with.

Mark: if what I believe about reincarnation is true, I hope your new life is going more smoothly than the one I was a small part of. Perhaps somehow, somewhere we'll meet again.

I'd like that.

Saying Farewell... Again

After losing a cousin and an old friend within 36 hours of each other this past weekend I've been thinking again of a place in Isaan where I've stood and said farewell to spirits passed over; a spot already mentioned in a piece about a friend's cousin dying of AIDS posted April. It seems like as good a time as any to share about the next visit, so here it is:

Shortly before a trip to Thailand a number of years back a beloved recently-retired co-worker went off her meds and as a result committed suicide in her home, leaving many of us both shocked and saddened. Because there was no real service for her some people didn’t feel the closure they wanted to the tragic event. Having already planned a trip to Isaan I mentioned to my boss I was going to look for some peaceful spot in the countryside outside of Bangkok where I could stop, say a prayer for her and wish her spirit safe passage.

This farewell was on my mind as the swaying train carried me through the green Northeast, but after arriving at my destination the excitement of visiting with my friend and being there pushed it into the background… until the day we ventured by scooter the 40-some-odd kilometers to his family home, a tranquil oasis surrounded by the family’s rice fields, coconut palms and lush greenery.

After a short visit with his family, my friend noticed that the afternoon light coming through the vents in the cinder block living room wall was turning gold as the afternoon drew to a close, and reminded me that I’d wanted to walk again out through the fields to the nearby reservoir to see the sunset. Getting off of my butt seemed like a good idea, as I’d still not gotten all of the feeling back into it after riding so long on the back of the scooter from town, and sitting on the tile floor while visiting hadn’t helped at all.

We took a different route this time, and when we turned west a few minutes later I saw what I immediately knew was “the spot” to say goodbye to my old friend. I had seen it once before, a few months previously, but it had slipped my mind. I said to my Thai friend “Will you wait for me here? There’s something I need to do for a few minutes.” He asked what, and I briefly explained why I was pausing along our walk. He nodded his understanding and I made my way down the bank we were walking along, down to the edge of a side bay of the main reservoir.

Stretching to the far horizon were thousands of lotus leaf pads, highlighted here and there with blossoms and buds, the buds reaching skyward from the now rose-colored water as if offering a wai to the heavens. The leaves floating on the illuminated surface still held rain drops from the afternoon’s rain that now sparkled like diamonds in the sunset. It was silent except for my own heartbeat and the soft gentle drone of the insects, and I spoke to my late friend Evelyn for a few minutes, the tears coming freely as I wished her a better life on her next journey.

I turned to head back up the bank and saw my friend still standing there, watching me but not saying a word. When I reached him he looked into my red eyes and silently took my hand as we walked the rest of the way to where we had gone before, the main shore of the reservoir.

After standing there quietly for a few minutes he gave my hand a gentle squeeze and asked “You better now?” “Yes, thanks” I said, “That was just what I needed.” He looked up at me and asked “If I die, will you come here and do this for me?” “Of course,” I replied, somewhat surprised at his question “but I’d rather not think about that right now. You have many, many more years ahead of you.” “Who know?” he asked, and we turned to walk back to his home, his family and dinner. It was a walk, a talk and a memory I've been reminded of far too often as family and friends have passed away since.

Motorcycle Taxi Safety (Or Not)

Back in high school a friend of mine pulled his Vespa out of the student parking lot and got knocked through the air by a woman in one of those big 60’s land yachts. He never stood a chance, and probably wouldn’t have even if he was wearing a helmet. As I stood there dumbstruck the next morning, looking at the remnants of his blood not yet fully washed away I decided I’d probably never ride on one ever again.

Fast forward to 2005, and I’m out for the afternoon with the charmed offspring of a fairly well-off family in Bangkok. By “well off” I mean they owned the hotel I was staying in, he had a personal bodyguard and his biggest decision that day was whether he’d pick me up in his BMW or his Mercedes; that kind of “well off”.

He knew most of the motocy drivers outside his family’s walled compound and picked one for me that he assured me would get my sweaty self to one of the family restaurants for dinner unscathed. After dinner he assured me he’d have one of the hotel limos pick me up to take me back for the night. He said with the traffic as it was the cycles were the only way to get there in any reasonable timeframe. For some reason I didn’t consider the hundreds of other drivers we’d be jockeying for position with along the way and got on, my friend on another just behind us.

Had it not been that I would’ve been embarrassed to wet the back of the driver’s trousers I may well have peed my pants. Helmet or no helmet, this was a hell of a lot more risky than I’d bargained for, and as I tried re-learning to trust leaning with the bike while he zig-zagged his way along I was reminded of my decision some 40 years before.

I’d often been surprised at the devil-may-care attitude of cycle riders there but since that day I’ve paid closer attention to the hordes of people who evidently take the “if it’s your time, it’s your time” thing to heart. While on elevated walkways over intersections at commute time I like to watch the cycles filter their way to the front of the pack of four-wheel commuters at a red light, listening to the whine of their engines revving when the light changes and they rush out ahead of the cars and trucks.



Although I did hear one (mentioned in an earlier post on accidents) fortunately so far I haven’t witnessed an accident involving one of these cyclists, but I suppose that time will come. Evidence of past “road rash” is a fairly common sight on people and I’m surprised at the number of folks who have helmets but don’t wear them. It’s not all that much of a fine if you’re caught without it – usually about 100Bt – but I should think there’s a certain amount of inconvenience to trying to get around without a portion of your head.

One of my early friends there needed a loan for the down payment on a cycle to get him from his rural home to work and school, and to my knowledge kept his side of the agreement to wear at least his helmet to protect him while he paid the bank and myself back… but I still worried about him.

I suppose life’s full of choices, and I didn’t always think all that far ahead when I was their age, either. Ah, the invincibility of youth!

Final Exit In Isaan

This occurred on a visit to a friend’s family farm outside of Udon Thani, far into the Northeast, on my first trip to Thailand.

Walking along the dirt road that crossed the front of the family land one evening I saw someone at the home across the road, lying on a mat on the raised platform outside of the main house. Despite the heat and humidity they were covered to their chin with a sheet. A small black and white television on top of an old desk flickered with the snowy image of some comedy show while a teenaged girl sat nearby, looking at her feet. She looked sad.

Covered by the usual thatched roof that was held aloft by thick poles at each corner these open-sided living areas often serve as the centerpiece for socializing. I was used to seeing families use this platform area for eating and resting on a regular basis, but not this. Normally at this time of evening folks would be gathered to watch the TV, elbowing each other and laughing at the caricatured characters, but neither of them seemed aware of the katoey’s exaggerated shrieking coming from the TV any more than the rise and fall of the cicada’s song, wafting along on the warm night breeze.

My friend was sauntering along a few paces ahead of me and swinging a stick at the tall grass at the side of the road, not really acknowledging the somewhat unusual scene we’d just walked past. “Do you know those people?” I asked. “Yes, that my cousin,” he replied, softly. Sensing something really amiss now I probably ought to have let it drop, but I didn’t. “Does she have the flu?” He looked at me as though I had just asked the dumbest question in the world. Walking closer to me he leaned in and said “She have AIDS,” even more softly than before. “She dying. She want to be outside.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I began, but he cut in with “Don’t sorry.” Seeing my somewhat surprised reaction he added, matter-of-factly “It happen. It fate. It her time.” Rather than reveal yet another layer of my Western Ignorance of Thai Ways I shut my cakehole and we walked along a little farther, heading to the nearby reservoir that would become our regular destination on these evening walks.

“Some things can be avoided, you know,” I began, but thought better of it. My friend had already sat patiently through a couple of lectures on avoiding HIV, and this didn’t seem an appropriate time to preach a third. He caught the reference, though, and said “She get it from her husband, he go prostitute.” “Ah, I see,” I replied, no less sad at her grave condition. “Who will help take care of her family?” “All,” he said, again as if he were surprised I’d ask such a question. “Her husband can go to hell, we will take care her children.” Surprised by his “go to hell” comment I tried to hold back a laugh, but failed. He smiled a little sheepishly and said “Everyone know he bad man now.”

I looked back at the glow from the TV and the house lights that gave an indication of where his cousin lay on her mat, daughter at her side, waiting for the end of her life.

Four weeks later, it would come.

Passing a stand of trees we reached the edge of the reservoir and I gasped quietly, seeing a sea of lotus pads and blossoms stretching to the far side of the water, still adorned with jewels of raindrops from that afternoon’s brief but heavy tropical downpour. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was this very spot where I’d stand in a few months to say farewell to the spirit of a friend who would soon commit suicide, and again a couple of years later after my father’s passing. “I guess it was his time,” I would say to my friend, not needing to add anything more for him to understand and nod his head, coming to stand next to me and slip his small hand into mine while I wept.

This evening I stood stock still, mesmerized by the sight; watching dragon flies zig-zag and hover over the pads as if they were trying to connect the dots of raindrops, the drops themselves sparkling with the colors of the sunset. The breeze made the tall trees near us sigh with a whisper. The near-hypnotic drone of the cicadas and the distant lowing of cattle only added to the mystical quality of the moment. “It’s always somebody’s ‘time’,” I thought to myself, grateful that it wasn’t mine just yet. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly and felt at peace.

Just The Massage Today, Thanks...

Trying out new massage places in Thailand is always a hit-and-miss proposition, but sometimes one really hits a winner. Early one Friday afternoon in early 2008 I ended up at the now-defunct HIS in Silom Center, about a block from the Chong Nonsi BTS station. It was far too early in their day for it to be busy so I was nearly dragged inside by the scant few who were on duty – perhaps concerned I’d walk the additional 50 feet to Arena Massage and they’d lose the business. They needn’t have worried. It was quite hot that day, I’d already walked a fair distance from the Surasak BTS station, and I wanted to sit down.

Out of personal bias I tend to go to more massage places that cater to a gay clientele than a straight one, but that bias isn’t because I’m looking for what is euphemistically known as a Happy Ending, it’s because I’m uncomfortable with the thought of being in the situation with a female working on me. We all have our quirks, and that’s one of mine. For a true Thai massage (something I’ll address in another post) it doesn’t bother me nearly the same, so go figure.

The Manager on duty gave the usual pat “All – ALL good massage” answer when I asked “Who actually knows proper massage?” but when he asked the eight guys themselves for a show of hands, only two went up. One of those was Kiaw’s, and he was telling the truth – he could do a great massage. He took his time, worked in a methodical manner and sensed immediately when I winced a little at pressure too firm on a sore spot, giving a little nervous laugh the first time I said “jep!” (ouch), saying “sorry, sorry” as he adjusted the pressure. He also understood my request for a real massage and made no attempts to start anything otherwise. I thought I was going to have someone to add to my “permanent” list, but it was not to be.

His English was passable, and we had a nice 90-minute chat while he worked. He’d just turned 20 a few weeks before but didn’t try the “today my birthday” ploy in an attempt to inflate his tip, a trick I’ve heard often enough before; often enough that now when I hear it I say “Wow, how cool! Let me see what ‘today’ looks like in Thai on your ID!” – which they never seem to have available – and thus ends the game. Not fair, perhaps, but neither is the fib.

He shared a basic studio room about two kilometers away in the Bangkrak district with two other coworkers but “home” and his family were a good deal farther away in Surin, where he was looking forward to being for Songkran in April, two months away. “When will you come back?” I asked. “Not,” he replied, smiling. I gave him a puzzled look and he puffed out his chest and said “School,” with a certain amount of pride. He’s been working for a long time to save money for a five-year training program, something that sounded a little like pre-med but may well have just been medical assisting of some sort. He said there will be an additional three years of training past that.

He was pleased, because he’d almost made it to his financial goal and figured if business continued well he’d reach it in another month or so, making everything above that gravy until April. It wasn’t a sure thing, though; business had been spotty, even through this current “high season”, and although he worked six days a week he could never know if he’d have one customer choose him in a week, or four. I was the first in three days, he allowed, somewhat glumly.

He was slim even by Thai standards and about as dark-skinned as they come, making his broad smile seem even brighter than most. When I asked if he liked girls or boys he dipped his head shyly and said “Girl, but never have.” He said he didn’t have a girlfriend either here or in Surin, which didn’t seem to bother him. He heaved a big sigh and said school was going to keep him more than busy once he got started. I didn’t press further but sensed he was probably as pure of body as he seemed of heart.

After we’d finished but were still in the room I tipped him and asked him if he minded if I took his picture. He sat down for a moment, happy to pose for a couple of snapshots. I got it across that I’d be back to give him a copy before I flew home, and he smiled again as the thought registered with him. “For my Mother,” he smiled.

While paying my tab at the reception desk he stood next to me, rather than at the front door the way many do, gently reminding customers about their gratuity. I figured he was standing next to me because he’d already been tipped, but then I saw him writing on a piece of paper. He walked outside with me, and as he took my outstretched hand to shake it, he handed me the piece of paper. On it, in Thai, was what looked like a mailing address and phone number. “Come Surin see me,” he said. “Kup kun krub,” (thank you) I said.

That evening, on my way to meet friends for dinner I dropped the image off at a photo shop to have two 4x6 copies of his picture printed. On my way back to my room I picked them up, purchasing a presentable wooden frame for one of them.

Monday afternoon I returned to HIS with a small bag in hand, containing Kiaw’s photos. When I entered the shop the manager didn’t recognize me and asked if I was there for a massage. I pulled the framed picture of Kiaw out of the bag and held it up so he could see it. He laughed, and then the rest of the gathering hopefuls saw it, too, as I knew they would. A great uproar of laughter and shouting erupted from the group as they called Kiaw out from wherever he was, dragging him by the hand over to collect his pictures. He smiled and took the photos with a “wai,” pressing the framed one to his chest, pleased. “For your Mother,” I said, tapping the back of the frame with my finger – and he smiled again.

I waved and turned to leave, and again he followed me outside. This time instead of a handshake he reached out and gave me a hug and said “thank you”. I wished him luck with his schooling and waved goodbye as I walked down the stairs to street level. “Come Surin see me,” he called down to me, pantomiming the writing he’d done on Friday. “I will try,” I said “I will try.” And I intend to.