Napping: My Guilty Afternoon Pleasure

A morotcycle taxi guy snoozes away the middle of the afternoon with a new cycle catalog covering his face.  Maybe he's dreaming of a newer model than the one he currently owns, you think?

Many in the USA would associate an afternoon nap time with those who are either pre-school age, retirement age or perhaps even creeping toward a second childhood.  Thankfully being past the 9-to-5 working stage I don't often have the afternoon obligations I wore as my yoke in the fields of the working world, but there's always life itself, and those already retired will understand that completely.

The main item to check off my daily list is my writing, and that's always an iffy thing to schedule. With a number of projects in the works it's not unusual for me to look up and see that it's past lunchtime and I'm not 100% pleased with what I've accomplished so far.  My guess is everyone has days like this.

The old line I heard often enough in an office setting was "the job expands to fill the time allotted," and there's a certain element of truth to that.  The phone rings with an incoming call from someone I'm happy to see looking up at me from my phone ID screen, the computer *dings* to announce the arrival of something emailed or messaged to me from somewhere across this wide, wide world of ours, I stop too often to look in on the few online forums I participate in, there are two newspapers to read in addition to the revolving stack of books on the table next to me and the usual business of keeping a home to occupy my days.  Add to that the pleasure that is my circle of friends and family and it can be a very full day.

AND... there's the ever-present lure of an afternoon nap; at the top of my personal list of guilty pleasures.  Part of the attraction is advancing age and not sleeping as soundly as I did in my youth, and part of it is simply that I've always enjoyed it and now find that since there's nobody looking over my shoulder to make sure I have my nose to the grindstone there's nothing to stop me - other than my usual feelings of obligation for everything in paragraphs two and three above.

I don't sleep in like I used to.  It's not that I can't, it's just that I don't.  Even during my working career I was up early on the weekends, because there were things that I wanted to do, although I could hit the snooze button a dozen times on Monday through Friday... go figure.

Decades ago, in more - ahem - colorful times of my life I loved the feeling of being pulled into slumber in a number of ways, but since I now choose to participate more fully in my own life I don't have any of those as an option any more, and perhaps that in and of itself is part of the hypnotic draw of an afternoon nap.

What on earth does this have to do with Thailand?  OK - I'll tell you.  I love early morning walks, so I'm often up while the sky is still pink, but by mid-afternoon I'm often ready for a tepid shower and a nap until the sun is lower in the sky.  That also leaves me re-charged for the evening and into the first part of night time before I'm heading back to my room for the night.

You of any age may want to give it a try, too.  Siesta time is an idea whose time has come, in my opinion.

Cycle Accidents 2: What Happens After

The scars on his head still evident, Noom tries over and over to write a single word

In yesterday's post I sounded off about what I feel is the irresponsible act of not wearing at least a helmet while riding on a motorized cycle. My feelings about that haven't changed in 24 hours, so rather than just delete the post, here's the follow-up I promised yesterday about my friend's brother. To avoid the slim chance of embarrassment I'm going to call him Noom and obscure his face. This is Noom's story...

At the time of the accident, Noom was in his late 20s. He was good looking, but shy; hoping - as many men do - for a decent life, a wife and a family. He had his problems, as we all do, but also had a stable future farming the family's rice properties and a lot of life ahead of him. Unfortunately, Noom also had an affection for Thai beer, coupled with the feeling of indestructibility; something globally shared by many his age.

One night while riding back home on the dark dirt roads of rural Isaan something happened to cause him to lose control of his scooter, and he flew off it; cutting, scraping and bruising himself in numerous places, breaking a bone or two and, more seriously, hitting his head against something - probably a fence post, but nobody's been able to say for sure to this day. He left blood on a post and a couple of rocks at the spot where a neighbor found his body, unconscious and severely traumatized sometime shortly thereafter. That, in and of itself, certainly helped save his life.

When the phone rang at the family home somewhere in the wee small hours, his mother answered the call that strikes fear into the heart of any parent: Noom was in the hospital, and there wasn't a lot of hope for him... they needed to get there as soon as possible. The family dressed hurriedly and piled into the family pick up truck. Noom's cousin Bot from across the road was the best driver, so he drove and got them into Udonthani to the hospital as quickly as possible.

Noom was a mangled mess. After they managed to stabilize him and it seemed possible to save him the doctor came out to urge extensive cranial surgery immediately. It wouldn't be cheap, and the family didn't have more than the basic National healthcare, so they had to agree to accept a debt that would skyrocket over the next couple of weeks. To make his point the doctor handed Noom's mother a piece of his skull he'd carried out of the ER in a small dish. I expect that's a moment his mother will carry with her for the rest of her life.

For the next few weeks the family stayed as close to Noom as possible, waiting and praying in shifts. His mother slept in a chair near him or under his bed on a blanket. Slowly he began to regain consciousness, and about the time he was able to minimally respond to them the hospital said it was time for him to go home. They showed the family what was necessary to care for him - changing bandages and dressings, diapering, tending the tracheotomy opening in his throat and tube feeding him via a hand-held siphon through a hose in his nose that emptied into his stomach.

Back home, Noom continued to improve. It was both tiring and worrisome for everyone in the family, but they pulled together and there were several relatives with him at all times, except at night, when there would only be one or two. His mother lost weight she didn't really have to spare from her effort and worry, and several of them began to look drawn and tired. Still, they stuck with him.

When I got back to visit again, Noom was able to eat small amounts by mouth, and although he couldn't speak but a few words he was well enough to register his displeasure at his situation and condition. If anyone spoke of the accident he'd become so agitated they'd have to restrain him and calm him down.

Too weak to walk even with crutches, one of us had to lift him up from each side and hold his arms over our shoulders to support him in what some would call the "drunken Jesus" position. Then he could move his left foot forward a few inches on his own, and we'd push his right one forward with our left one, allowing him to "walk" and get a minor amount of exercise. It wasn't much, but it was a lot for him.

At the doctor's suggestion they repeatedly tried to stimulate his brain. Thinking that perhaps writing would be easier for him than speaking they put a pencil in his better hand and held paper to it countless times, encouraging him to write what he couldn't say - but that seemed to take forever, too. The VCD/DVD player I'd bought the family allowed him to watch movies and things that weren't on TV, and he had favorite movies he'd watch over and over.

Gradually Noom got stronger, his speech returned (although he still doesn't speak clearly) and he can walk again, with a pronounced limp. The most telling reminder of that night is something Noom must see every time he looks in a mirror: the crater above his right eye, where he struck his head. To protect it, he now wears protective head gear to ride in the car.

Already shy before the accident, Noom - now 31 - worries that no woman will want him and he'll live alone with his family, doing the best he can. He struggles with those discouraging thoughts every day. If we brought food to the house he would come out and eat with us, but he kept himself out of sight most of the times I was there visiting. He declined to come out with us to eat any of the times I took the family out to nearby restaurants, saying he was tired.

As my friend and I were leaving in the family truck to take me back to my hotel, Noom shouted sharply at my friend in Thai. I asked my friend what Noom had said. "He thinks I'm taking you back on motocy," my friend said, smiling. "He said 'wear helmet, stupid!' "

Noom has not gotten back aboard a motocy since.

Cycle Accidents... And What Happens After

Two cyclists, snaking through moving traffic at commute time in Bangkok

There will be a fair number of people reading this who might take me to task for what I'm about to say, but in this rare case I honestly don't care if they do: people who insist on riding around on motorcycles and motor scooters where there are autos, buses and other traffic without a helmet to protect their heads don't have much common sense at work within those heads. The same goes for bicycle riders.

When I was in school (long before helmet laws were in place) a friend on a Vespa scooter lost his confrontation with an automobile and drained an alarming quantity of blood from his head onto the street at the entrance of the school parking lot. I told myself then I wouldn't get onto another one myself, but I have, three times, and all of them in Thailand.

The first was with my Isaan friend, going to visit his family farm for the first time. I could say it was merely foolhardy, but to be honest it was stupid; neither of us had a helmet and we rode a good 20 kilometers along the highway on a small, rickety scooter he'd borrowed from his older sister. It was exhilirating when I could shelve the memory of Dave's accident and ignore the possibility of becoming 90Kg of ground meat myself at any moment.

The second you may remember from the "Motorcycle Taxi Safety (Or Not)" post from last April, where I said I was surprised at the number of folks who seem to go with the "if it's my time to die, it's my time to die" philosophy. That ride was actually more spooky because I was on the streets of Bangkok at the start of commute time, but I did have a helmet on. As you can see in the clip used in that post (repeated below) although there are a lot of cyclists in the Big Mango, most DO wear protection. In the clip all but one passenger had one on.

Cyclists in Bangkok... all (but one passenger) wearing a helmet

Unless it's changed, it's a 100 baht fine to ride without a helmet there, but I'd like to think most Thai wear one to avoid the risk of spending the rest of their days doing nothing more than drooling while propped up somewhere.

The third time I was on the back of a cycle there was just a little over a year ago, in Pattaya, and again I had a helmet on. My companion for dinner was giving me a ride back to my room one night, and I took a couple of HD clips. I'm repeating that clip below, but if you want to read about accidents and cycles again you can reference "Night Riding On A Motocy", also from early last year.

I guess what got me to thinking about the foolishness of riding around with nothing but air and exhaust between your head and a variety of immovable objects was running across pictures taken of my friend's brother after he was in a motocy accident without a helmet on, and remembering what a devastating effect it had on his family.

Some of you reading this have been hit up for money from people in Thailand (male and female), and may have already heard the "my brother was in a motocy accident" line, but in this case, it was true.

That story tomorrow.

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!

Night Riding On A Motocy

Motor scooters and small cycles are far more prevalent in many parts of Thailand than cars. You see them everywhere, and I mean everywhere: parking lots, streets, sois, sidewalks, walking paths, lobbys, front yards, back yards, fields – hell, I’ve even seen one parked inside of a laundromat. They’re cheaper and easier than a car to buy, fuel, maintain, park and navigate through the inexplicable maze that is Thai traffic.

They provide, however, next to no protection for the people driving or riding on them, (and I’ve personally seen a family of six piled aboard a single scooter) unless you consider a shirt, shorts and flip-flops to be “protective gear”.

Granted, there is a helmet law in place and you do see many people wearing them, but what good’s a helmet if an alarming percentage of your body’s been grated like parmesan cheese along the road after you’ve hit an immovable object at a combined speed of 50 miles per hour?

Coming back from a late dinner a bit south of Jomtien a few weeks ago I was looking out into the near-darkness along the road and chatting with my friend when I heard somewhere relatively close behind us the loud, concussive sound of a collision. No horns, no squealing of brakes, just the loud, low "WHUMP" of the impact. Being a good American (we can be such voyeurs) I craned my neck around to see what had happened, but only thought I saw a motorcycle on its side. My friend, both hands on the wheel, never even broke stride in the story he was telling me when I heard the noise.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, interrupting him "That was an accident back there. Aren't you supposed to stop and offer assistance?" "Maybe," he said, and then allowed "Yes, we're supposed to, but what could I do?" "Well, you're a doctor, for a start," I began, but he cut me off, saying "I don't have my bag with me, and if it was a motorcycle it's almost always just a matter for the coroner to clean up." Not judgmental, not flip - just being realistic, I suppose.

It did, however, make me think back to the previous night when, against my better judgment, I’d climbed onto the back of a friend's motocy and allowed him to drive my weary frame back to my room to sleep. A friend of mine had been killed on his motorcycle back some 40 years ago, and since then I'd only allowed myself to be on one of the contraptions two other times. I was, you might say, more than a little spooked.

Toey was sober, alert and a careful driver, but I'm amply aware it's the people who aren't who'll get you. However, figuring "in for a penny, in for a pound" I took out my little FlipHD recorder and filmed a couple of clips along the way, holding the camera out to my left. He seemed relieved that I'd abandoned the death grip I'd had on his kidneys when he first pulled out into the traffic on Second Road, and truthfully it was rather exhilarating... but not something I'm likely to repeat any time soon.

Here's one of the two clips I made that night while scooting through some of the lesser streets of Pattaya: