Due to a recent event, I’ve been motivated to write about religion, a subject I’m not too crazy about, but one that’s in the news every day, in one form or another, and which I do find interesting to read about from time to time.

As you already know, I grew up in Southwest Texas, a dry area in more than one sense. Arid for sure, as there are areas of Southwest Texas that see very little rain, but dry in the sense many towns in Texas are not allowed to sell alcohol.

These are called dry towns.

It may rain like hell, but supposedly there’s not a whole lot of pouring going on.

Why?

Baptists.

The Baptist religion, especially in the Southern United States, goes way out of its way to proclaim the evils of inebriation. Unlike the Catholics, booze is not a necessary evil in the Protestant’s eyes.

To a devout Southern Baptist it’s considered a sin to drink alcohol period, let alone become inebriated from drinking. So, an example of the sheer power of the Baptist religion in the Southern U.S. is not only the many small towns considered dry, but the myriad blue laws, some of which are still in existence and still enforced to this day.

Blue laws are designed with religious morals in mind, regulating Sunday activities such as shopping in retail stores, and buying certain things considered vile and unnecessary in the eyes of the moral Protestants.

When I was a young boy, many retail stores were closed on Sunday. Grocery stores often had areas containing dry goods roped off, prohibiting the sale of say…a cooking pan, or clothesline rope. The reason for this, supposedly, was to send the message, “Hey! Sunday is a day of rest! You shouldn’t be buying clothesline rope, you should be in church!”

The blue laws in the Southwest Texas city of El Paso were eventually circumvented when a clever owner of a carpet store decided to open his store to “Give away” his carpets. For years he’d kept his store closed on Sunday since he wasn’t allowed to sell his goods. So, he decided to open his store, which wasn’t illegal, and sell chewing gum, which was legal, instead.

Yep, you read it right…chewing gum, albeit very expensive chewing gum. He’d sell you a pack of say Juicy Fruit, for say $68.00 and then he’d give you the carpet you had your heart settled on. This had the authorities in a literal quandary, but there was nothing anyone could do, since it was fully legal.

The famed “Legal loophole.”

Back as far as I can remember, I was quite literally forced to attend the local Baptist church. I was never given an alternative. I was never asked whether I wanted to attend church. I was told to go and go I did.

I had to attend Sunday school in the early morning hours, listening to a Sunday school teacher blather on and on about things in the bible that I really wasn’t interested in, or found totally unbelievable. I even had to attend Vacation Bible School, which put a serious kibosh on my wonderful vacation periods from public school.

As a young boy of twelve years of age, I was developing into a staunch realist. The stuff they were throwing at me in Sunday school was in direct opposition to what I was learning in public school. I was a young, budding scientist. I didn’t want to believe in huge arks holding every species of animal on the earth in opposing sexual pairs, nor some barefoot dude walking on water, or some bearded guy turning water into blood.

I had to see something in order to believe it. Pragmatism was what oiled me up…got me going. The bullshit I was being fed in Sunday school began to get under my skin and not only bore me, but it pissed me off. I didn’t like being lied to and I even mentioned that very thing, one Sunday, to the utter horror of those around me.

I quickly found myself ostracized, and discovered this welcoming, loving little environment of the Baptist church, became very hostile when they came upon a budding anarchist such as myself.

Funny, that last statement rings true of the situation I’m going through here in Southern Thailand right now…funny how those things work out.

Word traveled fast, and someone from the church called my mother. Luckily for me, she didn’t beat me. I was getting a bit too old for that, and was evolving into a radical and unstable teenager. I frightened my mother because I was also shooting up in height and weight, and was strong…in very good shape while studying the martial arts in my free time, and I was developing a quick and potentially very violent disposition.

My mother gave me the ultimatum that if on my fourteenth birthday I didn’t want to attend church anymore, then my decision would be honored. When that day rolled around, I informed her I was done, finished. It was my fourteenth birthday, and I would not be attending church the following Sunday.

My mother told me I would not sass her, and that I would indeed attend church the following Sunday. One of the many, many times she went back on her word.

I didn’t attend church the following Sunday, and from that point on, my mother pretty much lost all control over me.

That’s a very brief history of my religious upbringing.

What was to follow was mainly borne out of curiosity more than anything else. But, I’m sure that since I was the one making my own decisions at this point in my life, I felt some new-found sense of freedom, which opened up many different possibilities for me.

I began attending church again…No, not the Baptist church, as they were too full of bullshit and hypocrites. I began attending Catholic mass.

Two very distinct things interested me in the Catholic religion.

First was the enormity of the church, the beautiful stained glass windows, and all the little baubles like incense, candles, holy water, saint’s statuettes, and the secret little confession chamber.

Second, I loved listening to the sing-song Latin masses and watching the priest decked out in his colorful, extravagant satin robes.

I didn’t attend the Catholic Church frequently, just occasionally, and I usually went with my friend Diana Servin and her parents. Diana’s mother and father were born and raised in Mexico City, Mexico and her mother was an awesome cook. After church service (which was much shorter than the Baptist church) I was often invited over to their house for lunch, and I was allowed in the kitchen where Mrs. Servin would teach me to cook Mexican food.

To this day I’m a fairly good cook and I attribute all my expertise to Mrs. Servin.

I had a lot of questions about the Catholic religion, and although I saw many similarities with the Protestants, I got the feeling that Catholics were much more laid back and forgiving. They could drink (I had developed an interest in alcohol), albeit sparingly, which was a joke if you ever attended a Quinceañera, or 15th Birthday celebration for a young Mexican girl.

These events (and others) always turned out to be a knock-down, drag-out drunken excuse for a celebration, with liquor flowing freely. And some of the priests actually smoked cigarettes.

My next religious safari led me down the road to the Methodist church. I honestly cannot remember why, but I suppose someone told me about their pastor, a very funny man who opened his sermon with the latest basketball scores. I hung out at his church for quite a while, well into my twenties, eventually becoming an actual church member, and volunteering to be on the welcoming committee for a group of Vietnamese refugee’s the church would be hosting, allowing them to live in an adjoining house that the church owned and used to use for meetings.

I had a blast with the Vietnamese family. We chatted about everything under the sun since a couple of the family members spoke good English. They tried teaching me Vietnamese but were not very successful since my mouth didn’t seem to want to make sounds anything like what came out of their mouths. We had fun though, and one day made a trip to a small market I’d discovered in my travels, which had a small alcove out back behind one of the large market coolers, fully stocked with everything Vietnamese.

These folks were flabbergasted. They bought up everything in sight and almost as a second thought as we were getting ready to leave the store, I spied the beer cooler. The eldest brother’s eyes lit up like a spotlight. “Beer!” he practically shouted. So, I picked up a couple racks of pounders (2 six-packs of sixteen ounce - 16 shot - cans to you dabblers).

When we returned home, the women busied themselves in the kitchen and I got to help cut up some green onions, and dice some meat. They were preparing a Vietnamese soup that smelled terrific, when their brother cracked open a pounder and handed it to me. The women abstained, but us guys got right into the spirit of things.

When the cooking finished, we all sat down to eat. Vietnamese are a slurping bunch when it comes to food, but I thought they were all just so much fun. We drank and ate and were generally having a good old time when one of the church deacons decided to drop by for a visit.

Busted!

Although to this day I don’t see any problem with the situation, it was obviously a no-no with the church, so I was banned from attending.

No, no warning…just banned.

That was the last time I ever walked into a church again.

I grew to hate all the limits churches placed on an individual. Mormons couldn't drink Coca-cola for crissakes, Jehovah’s witnesses couldn’t celebrate their own birthday, and Baptists couldn’t dance.

I just gave it all up for lent, pun fully intended. I didn’t feel any loss, nor did it affect my life in any way, at least that I consciously noted.

Occasionally I’d run into someone religious who would take it upon themselves to judge me because I announced I wasn’t religious, had no religious affiliation, or didn’t believe in god. They’d start preaching to me about the horrors of sin and living a non-religious life, how I’d burn in hell and worse, and I hated all of it. Even to this day I can feel that slight cringe inside when somebody mentions religion, yet I’ve begun to wonder why it elicits that response in me.

Of late, I came upon a tiny baby rat in our yard. A huge coucal (What Mam and I refer to as the ‘brown’ bird, or the ‘whoop-whoop’ bird after the loud, raucous sound it makes) had dropped the little fellow in our yard after Mam startled him. The little fellow was destined to become a quick meal that was for sure.

The little fellow was still alive.

It had no hair and its eyes were still closed, most likely only a few days old. I scooped him up and took him inside to make him a little nest to sleep on. Mam followed me inside with that irritated tone in her voice and that hateful look she gets... “Jeeem, what are you going to do with that thing?”

“I don’t know. What do you want me to do? Kill it?"

"No, it’s just a baby Mam, so I’m gonna try and save it.”

My wife didn’t make many more comments about it, but I could tell she wasn’t particularly happy about the whole thing, having well over sixteen kills to her credit of the larger variety (add one just prior to this posting).

And, since we’re talking about uh…religion here, Mam is supposedly a staunch Buddhist, and Buddhists do not believe in harming any living thing. (Gotcha Mam!)

Every day either upon arising or when I got home from work, I’d feed the little guy. I had Mam pick up a syringe from the local pharmacy (making sure she told the pharmacist what it was for, lest the rumor around town fly that Jeeem was now a drug addict and injecting himself with illicit drugs) so I could feed him in an easier manner, and surprisingly, this worked for quite some time. I really didn’t expect the little fellow to live very long, and he didn’t, but at least I fed him well until his little eyes were open and he got to take a peek at the world around him.

My point, I suppose, is I developed a sort of love for the little fellow. When I finally found him lifeless in the bottom of his box, lined heavily with cotton balls, without even thinking, I said a little prayer for him, and actually shed a tear or two.

This situation suddenly had me in a mild quandary.

Why had I felt the necessity to pray for this little animal? I’d claimed I was an agnostic for years, had gotten into intellectual battles of wits with believers, and had denounced the very issue of praying to anything thought to be of a higher power.

Then, as soon as it happened, it was forgotten…or rather placed on the back-burner.

Days, weeks later, I received an e-mail from my “brother” Jesus Herrera. Some of you know of Jesus and how close we always were during our younger years. Jesus was shot in the face by his own father-in-law with a small gauge shotgun and completely blinded in 1973. Then, after going down a hard road in life, he came very, very close to suicide. Then he “found the lord,” and became religious.

Jesus not only became religious, he devoted his life to religion. He became a pastor of a church. He currently operates a website, mostly in Spanish, about his church and for its people. You can peruse it HERE, under Bodas Del Cordero, and HERE, and can see he now refers to himself as Pastor Almicar Herrera Marquez, due to a theft of his identity. Almicar was his father's name.

Anyway, Jesus and I write to one another frequently. Checking up on how the other is doing. I ask about his family, his wife Perla, and his numerous children. He asks about Mam and how we are doing in life.

Then he sent me a rather odd e-mail…one that stood out among the rest.

It went something like this:

“Hey I am starting a prayer meeting Friday's at 7 I will be praying for you and your wife. My prayer will be that God will bless you with long life, and in my radio program at the I say that my desire is to all that are listening that God will bless you with love, peace and joy [sic].”

That may not mean much to any of you, but a little history might help. Jesus, my dear brother and friend, and I had a bit of a going around about religion after he became just a tad invasive with his e-mails, and I no longer could hold in my ire.

Suffice it to say that after all we’d been through online, over the better part of three or four months, the statement he mailed me, which you’ve read above, is way out from left field.

Then, a matter of a day after receiving that e-mail, the following scenario happened…

Like any other ordinary day, Mam drove me to school, crossing the railroad tracks running north/south, parallel with the park across from the school, and parked on the side street beside the park to see me off.

I said my usual…”Okay, thank you honey. I love you. See you at four o’clock, have a nice day okay?” and I was gone.

My day was really no different from any other. After my last class though, I had a lot on my mind after thinking about an issue involving an old friend. I was pretty deep in thought, but anyone who knows me, knows I’m somewhat of a perfectionist, and one who is very routine oriented…a real creature of habit.

I went into automatic physical mode, while my brain was deeply involved in some inner dialog with my subconscious. Translated, I was moving around and doing stuff I needed to do, but mentally I was somewhere else. I rarely get into this type of mental and physical phenomena, liking to think I’m always pretty aware. But, this particular time, I was really buried deep inside my head.

I swept the floor, picked up the dust pan and swept the dirt and detritus into it and deposited it into the trash bin, turned off the lights, checked all the windows that they were locked, turned off the power to the TV and DVD, turned off the light over the white board, and put away my markers and erasers. Then I turned off the air-conditioning and left the classroom, locking the door behind me.

Sorry to be so vague about what I was thinking about, but it would take an equally long blog posting to explain.

Just suffice it to say it was something (and someone) I hadn’t thought about in a very, very long time.

Then Jeeem left the building.

As usual I stopped by the main office and scanned my finger, checking out for the day. I grabbed the “English Teacher” log and logged out my time, sitting down at a nearby table to do so, while several young students gathered around me.

Answering to the pleading chants of several young annuban (kindergarten) students (mostly little girls) repeating ad-nauseum, Luk ohm! Luk ohm! (Candy! Candy), I reached into the front section of my backpack and pulled out several pieces of penny candy, a habit I’d gotten into with the kids, which at times I wished I’d never started.

Handing out one to each girl, I quickly ran out of candies.

“Luk ohm may-mee! (I don’t have anymore candy!)." To the great disappointment of the remaining girls scattered about.

Firm little faces planted in sour puckers.

“They’ll get over it,” I thought to myself, easing back into my previous mindset and saying, “Bye, bye! Ga ban!” as I set out towards the school gate.

I crossed the street and remembered to look both ways, then sideways, then perpendicular, because when you live in Thailand, the laws of the road…well, don’t exist. So, unless you want to end up as a road pancake, you look virtually everywhere.

Managing to reach the other side of the road and the dizzying maze of merchants selling their goods, I began zigzagging through the maze of kiosks that were set up, selling soda, sweets, barbecue, dried squid and other treats, mostly to attract young school children, the smoke of the various barbecues drifting into my face as I walked in a semi-trance towards Mam’s usual spot, waiting for me on the other side of the railroad tracks which she typically crossed in the morning, but didn’t in the late afternoon.

My thoughts were predominant. I remember that much. Nothing else much existed. I was again on autopilot as I hit the sidewalk finally, stepped off the curb, walked around a couple of motorcycles and approached the railroad tracks.

I walked right up to the railroad tracks and stopped.

I don’t know why I stopped.

I do remember that somewhere deep in my brain there was the thought just to keep on going…to reach Mam.

But, I stopped.

I didn’t even hear the train.

In a millisecond it was upon me. I was a mere foot, twelve inches, thirty point forty-eight centimeters…from the side of the train.

Somebody was screaming at me from behind. I knew they were screaming at me because I heard the obnoxious word, “Farang!” and I was the only Farang around at the time.

I could have reached out and easily touched the train’s side as it whizzed past me. I remember distinctly beginning to raise my hand to do so…but dropping my hand after it only barely moved. Everything…everything was like in slow motion. I could feel the intense vibration under my feet. I could see the heavy metal of the track railing heaving upwards, then heaving downwards...moving as the large wheels of the train passed over them.

Immense power, immense weight…then it was gone.

I remember looking up and seeing Mam. She wasn’t even looking at me. She was positioning our motorcycle towards Klong Tong Nuea, where we were to head home.

I looked south, after the train, to see it lumbering along…still feeling the vibrations of the earth beneath my feet and slowly beginning to connect with the realization that I almost walked directly into its path.

I looked behind me, twisting only my head...to no avail as nobody was looking at me, which I thought was strange since all Thais were typically curious and usually staring at me, as well as the fact somebody behind me had yelled “Farang!”

I then slowly turned to my immediate left, first looking north down the forlorn tracks in the direction the train (an engine and four cars…no caboose) had come. Then looking down a shallow hill leading down from the train tracks into another kiosk area located across from the park, and kiddy-corner from the school.

Several kiosks were set up under tarps and umbrellas like a small village, smoke rising from under the tarps from the pork fat dripping onto hot coals. My eyes eventually zeroing in on a man looking directly at me.

A Thai man.

He was standing in front of a fat Thai woman barbecuing fatty pork bits skewered onto long sticks. A common delicacy found in most parts of Thailand, and which smells a helluva lot better than it tastes if you ask me.

He was looking directly at me and smiling. He was missing a few front teeth...I don't remember which ones.

Wearing tan pants and a white sleeveless muscle shirt, he had several Buddhist medallions, or Phat Phoo Tah Lhoop, around his neck. Many Thai’s wear them to ward off evil spirits, or for good luck...which ever you want to believe.

Was he smiling…or grinning?

I turned around to face Mam, turned again to look north and south for any other errant trains seemingly coming out of nowhere, and again entered my out-of-body experience of just floating along in deep thought.

To be perfectly honest, I do not remember getting on our motorcycle or Mam driving me home. My next vivid and conscious thought was seeing Chok, our new little puppy, frolicking towards us as Mam turned into the path leading to our house tucked deep in the jungle.

Since that day, that event, it has dawned on me several times, each time giving me a chill, that I came deadly close to walking right into the path of that train and becoming mince meat pie.

I cannot…Can Not express my true experience, my true feelings about this event. It’s impossible.

Basically, I almost…died.

A matter of milliseconds.

I never heard that train.

I wrote to Jesus and told him of this event…trying to link it to his rather obtuse excuse for a prayer meeting. But, I never received a reply...and I haven't written him about it again.

So, what’s my point?

Chris will undoubtedly understand. As he remembers my “lucky?” get away to China, after which my girlfriend Wanda and her “new” boyfriend Carl were murdered in bed, her ex-husband having shot them with a large bore shotgun then killing himself with a handgun.

“Double murder / suicide” they called it. Read about it HERE.

Annie understands, as I notified her shortly after it happened, and she had actually talked to Wanda once or twice on the phone.

Several people, mainly Chris, pointed out how “lucky” I was having made the choice to travel to China when I did, knowing full well I might have postponed it for a while after Wanda had begged me to stay just another year, saying she’d support me while I played maid and housewife…a tempting offer at the time.

Is it possible for someone such as Jesus (pronounced “Hay-souse”), a blind pastor of a church and a councilor to many in need, to know something was going to happen to me...something ultimately fatal? Is it of any importance that his name, one often mispronounced, is spelled after Jesus of Nazareth the Christian son of God?

Why did he suddenly decide to hold a prayer meeting in my honor?

Yeah, I’m an Agnostic, and before the events mentioned above, I considered myself a staunch agnostic.

Now I’m wondering if I should take another look at my religious underpinnings…my beliefs…my destiny.

What do others think? I’m certainly open to suggestions, opinions, thoughts, observations, because…well, you know…that’s life man! If you’re not open to new ideas, new avenues, then why even live? We have to remain open-minded….or KARMA will kick our damn asses…no?

Ha! Thank gosh I've got a good sense of humor!

-Jeeemeister-

Hey Chris...
Ever hear this little ditty?

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)

We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files
We'd like to help you learn to help yourself
Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes
Stroll the Lock Keeper's Inn until you feel at home

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)

Hide the money in a hiding place where no one ever goes
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes
It's a little secret, just the Robinsons' affair
Most of all, you've got to hide it from Peter

Coo, coo, ca-choo, Mrs Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)

Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon
Going to the Sinn Féin debate
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you've got to choose
Ev'ry way you look at it, you lose

Where have you gone, Kirk McCambley
A nation turns its lonely eyes to you (Woo, woo, woo)
What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson
Kickin' Kirk has left and gone away
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)

via -Jeeem-
heh, heh...

Mam and I arrived at school yesterday and noticed a large group of adults gathering around the front gate to the primary building. Mam was with me since we had to go to the main office and tell them I was leaving for my 90-day immigration check in Hat Yai that morning.

After having chatted with a couple people in the park across from the school, Mam asked me, “Do you know why all these parents are here?”

“No, I don’t. Why?”

“They want their children to go to Patong School. If they are late today, they will not be able to sign their children up for the school.”

“Ah…wow! There sure are a lot of them!”

And there were…hundreds actually.

Within just a few minutes the park across the street from the school was filled with people, most of them pressing forward and crossing the street, blocking traffic, and heading towards the front gate of the primary building.

When Mam and I approached the front gate, one of the guards had to physically push the people back to let us into the school. Thai’s were everywhere, surrounding me and giving me incredulous looks, since I was not wearing my school badge around my neck.

When Mam and I finished our business at the main office and left the school, we waded through the massive throng outside the gate and drove over to route four to park our motorcycle at the store where Mam's friend, the proprietor, lives. Then we crossed the street to hitch a ride on a Songtheaw to Hat Yai.

Route four runs from Northern Malaysia straight into Hat Yai, the largest city in Songkhla province.

Once Mam and I were on the Songtheaw and settled, I easily drifted into deep thought about yet another generation of Thai kids getting ready to perpetuate the dull, lifeless future that exists for so many in Thailand.

These new students will face Thai teachers who are so burned out by excessive paperwork and long hours including weekend work and overtime that isn’t paid, that they quite literally fall asleep in their (or my) classroom if they’re not actively teaching.

If not standing outside their classroom gabbing on their ever-present cell phones, these teachers only exist to repeatedly regurgitate material out of a textbook, often in a boring monotone, or write long Thai sentences on the black board for the students to copy into their notebooks. Very little, if any, attention is paid to teaching proper hygiene, etiquette, manners, the dangers of alcohol and drugs, sex education, or simply how to respect your elders.

School material in our primary building is terribly outdated, useless garbage belched out at the children day after day, month after boring month, year after year. Nothing much has changed in the paltry six years I’ve been teaching at Patong; except it’s obvious to me things are actually getting worse.

Voranai Vanijaka is a well known and highly respected journalist for the Bangkok Post. He writes a column in the Sunday Forum section, which is controversial to say the least since he’s Thai and often writes damaging articles regarding Thailand’s substandard educational system. Something you don’t see very often, as Thai’s rarely vilify their own way of doing things.

I’ve been reading the Bangkok Post voraciously for at least six years now, and Voranai's articles are among my favorite since he speaks the truth about the Ministry of Education and the Teacher’s Council of Thailand.

One of Mr. Vanijaka's past articles dealt with the very subject I was just mentioning, regarding Thai teaching methods. He has shed light on the glaring fact that Thai teachers are often…too often…lazy, over-worked, and under-educated. They often pay more attention to a student’s uniform and hair length, than to more important things like…well, education.

Mr. Vanijaka has simply reinforced the things I already knew about, but never opened my mouth about until now.

I’d like to begin this piece with Thai boys and wrap up with comparison to Thai girls.

“Snips and snails and puppy dog tails…”

What little boys are made of dates all the way back to the 19^th century. Nothing much has changed since then either. Most Thai boys are naughty little explorers with short attention spans for the mundane and all the attention in the world for the sublime (such as online video games). Thai boys in particular are a lazy bunch, with dwindling respect for their teachers and elders. They go from fairly innocent little twerps, to astonishingly rude, pseudo-know-it-all's in the short span of just a couple of years. They hold anyone and everyone in contempt who dares challenge their self-delusion of authority.

Thai boys have very little sense of responsibility, which can be measured in the classroom by forever forgetting their notebooks or not even bothering to bring them to class, not bothering to complete their homework, lack of attention, full-blown disrespect for the teacher who is trying desperately to teach a class, extremely poor grades, and the list goes on…

Any foreigner who has lived in Thailand for a while and has taught English, will tell you that Thai male offspring are routinely elevated to an extremely high level of importance in the Thai family structure. Many of them know they can get away with murder, and often do just that.

To fully understand this male dominance is to take a peek at the fathers.

This is not a cookie-cutter type situation. Some Thai men or fathers are different than my example. However, it is my opinion, for what it's worth, that the lot of them, the majority if you will, easily fit into this description.

Arise early in the morning in Southern Thailand and look around you. You’ll see Thai men slowly coming out of the woodwork, a good majority of them terribly hung-over from the day and / or night before.

They speed along the Soi’s and back roads on their ill-maintained motorcycles, blue smoke belching out from the exhaust, one hand on the throttle, and the other holding their birdcage.

Yes, I said BIRDCAGE.

These cages range from plain to elaborate. The most elaborate are fashioned from carefully tooled bamboo or iron, into highly fanciful works of art, practically all of them housing the red-bearded bulbul.

The Red Bearded Bulbul or Red Whiskered Bulbul is the favorite among Thai men because of its song. It’s not so much that Thai men are naturalists who appreciate wildlife, it’s all about opportunity. These opportunists are setting out to make money in songbird competitions. They are all traveling with their birds to some large communal area where other Thai men gather to sip (or guzzle) Thai whiskey as early as six o’clock in the morning, and discuss their bird’s abilities.

As you travel around a neighborhood, you’ll see what you would normally regard as pipe’s set up as a convoluted clothesline, but they are not used for drying clothes as much as they are used to hang birdcages in full view of gathering crowds of men.

A lot of talking goes on before the actual event begins. This discussion is most likely about odds and money, a complicated procedure I don’t fully understand. But, it’s interesting to watch.

Suddenly the bird owners will stand up and begin going through varied contortions, making kissing noises, waving their arms, and taunting their bird or bird's to sing. Many theories abound, regarding techniques that work, succeeding in a bird that breaks out in beautiful money song.

Ultimately a winner is decided upon and currency quickly changes hands, almost imperceptibly, causing me to get the drift this activity may be somewhat illicit.

Come mid-morning the birds are put away and out come the fishing poles and nets.

I’d like to point out that these waterborne activities are all easily accomplished while drinking Thai whiskey and the sheer amounts of this favorite beverage of Thai men country-wide, which are consumed in a day, are absolutely astounding.

Thai men gather at a river bank, stream, pond, or lake, and cast their nets or lines out into the water.

Fresh water shrimp and a wide variety of fish are either brought home for dinner, or sold at the markets for cash. The cash, in turn, is often used to purchase another bottle or two of Thai whiskey.

Other Thai men either not equipped for fishing or not interested in standing around in the blistering sun for a day, wander about in their run-down trucks, or on their motorcycles equipped with sidecars, scrabbling through trash bins for recyclable materials such as plastic, cardboard, steel or glass. These items are collected throughout the day and turned in at the local recycling center on the main road, for cash.

The more industrious Thai men will set out looking for small jobs. Construction, painting, gardening, anything they can manage to find, often attained in conversation during their bird competitions or while fishing.

These men are dark skinned, sinewy fellows who work hard, holding off the booze until they are off the clock, then drinking a good majority of their profits away. All this while their children show up at school in old, ill-fitting, tattered uniforms or hand-me-downs since Daddy can’t afford a new uniform or shoes for them as it would interfere too much with his drinking money.

Many a student of mine has come into my class with their head lowered, trying to hide their blackened eyes or bruised face after surviving a night when their father went "Bah," (Thai for 'Crazy')... blind drunk on Thai whiskey and Chang seltzer water, and looking for a punching bag.

Sometimes the same scenario above includes not only Thai whiskey, but also "Ya-Bah," (The name is understandable) a dangerous Thai amphetamine drug that is widely produced and abused and which many Thai men end up going to prison for possession or use thereof.

There is more to this sordid story, but that should suffice for now.

Young Thai boys are conditioned early in life to follow in their father’s footsteps, or to follow the example of some other father-figure in their life (Por bun tam) since their birth father left the scene when they were but flailing fetuses, or shortly after their birth. Another example of the irresponsible traits of Thai men, in a third-world country that does not, by any stretch of the imagination, hold a Thai father accountable when they abandon their wife and children.

Young Thai girls, in contrast, are almost exactly the opposite.

"Sugar and spice and everything nice…"

The majority of Thai girls are good students who remember to bring their notebooks to class, study hard, pay attention in class, and get good grades. Very, very few are naughty, and those that are naughty are typically tom-boys.

When not in school, it’s not so much that they are responsible (they’re kids for crissake!) as they don’t really have a choice.

While their brothers laze around or are out in the street playing takraw or football (soccer), gathering up frogs, playing in mud, swimming, or generally trying hard to get into some sort of trouble, the girls are busy…very, very busy.

Busy doing the laundry, washing the dishes, taking care of the babies in the family, heading out to the market to purchase vegetables and sundries, cleaning the house, folding, pressing, ironing, toiling, and after all that, they settle down to do their homework. For some young girls in the household, there is scant time or opportunity for play.

Asian culture leans towards its male offspring, some women actually feeling disgust if they give birth to a girl rather than a boy.

While girls are wonderful students, they too fall prey to the substandard educational system in Thailand. If they graduate, (many drop out in order to ‘help’ the family, and never finish high school or attend college), they are vomited out into society to work, usually for peanuts. Even if they do end up attending and finally graduating from college, their salaries are never equal to their male counterparts.

So, this perpetuating situation rolls along like a giant boulder, gathering up the young kids as it rolls along...Smashing their lives, and flattening out their existence. These youngsters end up living lives exactly, if not worse, like their parents lived before them, struggling to hammer out an existence in a society that is operating in a vacuum.

The boys turn into men, who turn to Thai whiskey, gambling and illegal activity, squandering their family’s assets and living on the same old Soi where their father’s lived, carrying on the family condition. A very sad situation indeed, and one that I've witnessed now for well over six years.

I welcome your comments and thoughts on this subject.

-Jeeem-

HEADS UP!

I've included an update on TEDDY the TOILET TOAD.

Find it in the right-hand column!

-Jeeem-

I've included a new blog link entitled "Weird Plants of Thailand."

Check it out in the right column under the "Amazing Thailand" heading!

-Jeeem-

Merry Christmas

Bob
Diane
Jacques
Mike
Bruce
Jeri
Eric
Jenni
Annie
Simone
Chris

May the holiday season bring joy to all of you!


You better watch out,
You better not cry,
You better not pout,
I'm tellin' you why,
Santa Claus is tapping,
Your phone.

He's bugging your room,
He's reading your mail,
He's keeping a file,
And running a tail,
Santa Claus is tapping,
Your phone.

He hears you in the bedroom,
Surveills you out of doors,
And if that doesn't get the goods,
Then he'll use provocateurs.
So you mustn't assume,
That you are secure,
On Christmas Eve,
He'll kick in your door,
Santa Claus is tapping,
Your phone

-Jeeem-

Well, well, well....

Very, very interesting to read all the comments online and hear all the buzz about the newest Tiger trash.

If you've been here on the site and read my previous posting about over-paid sport's stars, endorsements included, then you may have noticed that my posting was well before any of this news about Tiger Woods and his beautiful wife Elin surfaced.

How appropriate to see the story unfolding so soon after my last post.

Personally, I've never cared for this guy, simply because of what I call his "attitude" both on and off the course. Having read many of his comments online captured by astute journalists, he often came across as a patronizing know-it-all to me.

But, what I think we forget some times, especially when the subject is a major celebrity or sport's star, is they are simply human like the rest of us.

"Let those who have never sinned cast the first stone.." or something to that effect, I remember from my younger days when my family tried cramming religion down my throat. But hey, that little saying is true. Nobody can effectively argue with that statement.

Another is, "Walk a mile in a man's shoes before you judge him..." yet another that makes me stop and think.

Wood's problem is he is a golf superstar.

He's a handsome racial minority who rose through adversity and became a self-made man.

Beautiful wife, darling kids, perfect teeth, dresses well, toned muscles, tendency for privacy that many could easily understand...what a smoke screen huh? Oh well, not in my book to criticize the guy who's done nothing more than many of us have done, myself included.

I've always said that sports, as an entertainment entity, pays it's participants too much. Bring those salaries (and endorsements) down to earth, funnel the money into much more needed areas like the homeless, cancer research, AIDS and STD prevention, and most likely you'll see less bong hitting, pit bull fighting, and other vices that come with astronomical salaries...but you probably won't see a reduction in spousal fidelity because that's as old as the worlds oldest profession....

Very sad that a guy like him could have come so far, and just about have it all, and trash it like he did.

Privacy? As a super star? Come on, tiger cub...get real!

-Jeeem-

It’s about time I post this…almost a month late.

I took the video posted above, with my Canon digital IXUS 950 IS the early morning of our flood.

The events leading up to all this began with a freak accident in center Thung Lung, around 4 or 5:00 late Thursday afternoon, where a huge, ancient Tamarind tree suddenly succumbed to high winds and driving rain, falling into the street at our small traffic circle.

A very unfortunate young man from Surat Thani province (สุราษฎร์ธานี), who was working and training as a novice teacher at nearby Patongpatankiriwat School, was killed immediately when he was unlucky enough to be at the wrong place at the right time, driving by on his motorcycle when the huge Tamarind tree fell on him.

This sort of news put Thung Lung on the radar screen with the local media, and it was a surprise to Mam and I both to hear Thung Lung mentioned on the 5:00 news.

It took local city workers over two hours to free his body and transfer him to Mor Orr hospital.

The tree, well over a hundred years old according to a resident living on the circle, took several power lines and poles with it when it fell, sending parts of Ban Thung Lung and surrounding villages into a brown out. It also knocked out our ADSL Internet connection.

As the day progressed into early evening, the rains only increased in intensity and we began to hear about local flooding in the nearby villages of Ban Phrue, Phang La, Tha Pho, Thung Mo, and Khlong Hoi Khong.

“It’s coming! I yelled to Mam.”

It’s early Friday morning, November 6, 2009 in Southern Thailand. Late Thursday evening in most areas of the U.S…

It’s been raining consistently every afternoon, between three and four o’clock, for the last week or two.

Beginning Wednesday the rains increased. Very heavy rains in the afternoon and continuing into the night, with almost continuous rain Thursday, beginning in the morning and continuing on into the night and early morning with only short periods of reprieve.

The meteorologists are calling it the "Northeast monsoon."

Why the Northeast, when it’s stuck over Southern Thailand, I’ll never know…never understood or trusted weather forecasters anyway.

The Tong River in our small village was engorged Thursday morning, coming to within six inches or so of the bridge on our main road...

(See pictures of last years flooding by clicking on “THE FLOOD” in the right margin). Even after all-day rains, the bridge remained clear, but with the water wavering just below the lip of the bridge.

I knew a flood was imminent, as I was sure the rains would continue on through the night, but by “Flood,” I meant the bridge would soon be covered with water and impassable as the pictures on my blog link “THE FLOOD” will show.

Mam and I have lived here in Ban Klong Tong Nûea for the past four years and have always been high and dry…until today.

Shortly after falling asleep last night I was awakened by a violent thunderstorm and heavy rains pounding our corrugated metal roof. The sound was deafening. I turned to Mam and said to her, “We’re definitely not going to have school tomorrow because Thung Lung (The village where my school is located) will be flooded.

“Ung..Um,” was all I got before she drifted off again.

Around three in the morning I awoke once again and heard people out on the road talking. Shaking off the sleepiness, I got up to have a look, as people outside talking at three in the morning was a sure sign people were rousing due to rising flood waters.

I wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw when I peeked out our bedroom window though.

First I noticed a large puddle on the path to our house, but other than that I couldn’t see much else around our house.

Flashlights ('Torches to you Chris, I suppose') and headlights were busily interrupting the blackness of the early morning, as across the street from us some of the locals were moving their vehicles and motorcycles to higher ground.

Curious, I went into our adjoining upstairs room where the computer desk is located and glanced out the window looking out on our side yard (The side closest to the Tong River) and all I saw was water.

“Uh oh!” I uttered, rousing Mam from her slumber.

“What? What’s wrong Jeeem?” (Nothing like an Uh oh! to immediately rouse Mam from her sleep, she's a mother you know...).

“Remember when I said I wished we’d have a flood? Well, I got my wish, only it’s a little worse than what I wished for!”

"Uowweee! Mai yak chuah!" (Uowweee! I can't believe it!).

Within minutes we were roaming around the house, wading through ankle deep water downstairs as the flood waters bubbled up through cracks and holes in our concrete floor.

Mam and I had been in a flood before, while living on Soi three in Thung Lung village, so we pretty much knew what to do.

Both of us still groggy with sleep, we quickly got busy carrying things upstairs and setting things up higher so they wouldn’t get damaged by the water. It really sucks doing something like that at three in the morning, but hey, you do what ya gotta do, you know?

Within an hour, we were comfortably nestled upstairs, dry and cozy, Mam watching the flood waters rise from our upstairs vantage point, while I prepared myself another coffee from our mini-kitchen setup Mam had fashioned into a corner of our bedroom.

Mam has this uncanny ability to make any situation comfortable, and this was no exception. She had quickly set up all our downstairs facilities, upstairs...and in a relatively small space, had made things really cozy and neat. That's only one of the many things I love about her.

Thank goodness we still had electricity.

The old Shaman woman across the street told Mam she hadn’t seen a flood this bad in the village for at least twenty years. Then, I suddenly pointed out to Mam that the water in our fore yard was flowing towards the Tong River and not away from it.

When Mam mentioned that to the old woman, she was told the flood waters were coming from the mountain to our south, and not so much from our local Tong river.

As I write this, (I wrote most of this as the actual flood was happening...much to the consternation of my wife) the flood waters are beginning to recede just a bit, most likely due to somebody opening a dam in Hat Yai, because the rains, if anything, have not stopped, and are actually increasing.

Once the T.V. channels woke up, Mam and I learned we were wicked lucky, as other villages were totally inundated. Thung Lung was paralyzed. Phone lines were down and even the cell towers weren't working correctly. We couldn't get a good signal on our mobile phones. At Took's store, Mam learned the water was waist deep in homes along Soi's two, three, and four, as well as behind the local wet market, a low lying area.

All this excitement got me thinking (I do that from time to time…)...

All the times I watched T.V. while living in the states or abroad, I’d see news broadcasts about floods, and think to myself…"Wow, too bad."

I’ve always been a bit morbid when it comes to things like that, wanting to be able to experience the same thing.

To just be there, you know?

Well, possibly you don’t know. Maybe I’m just some sort of weirdo (No comments from the peanut gallery Annie!).

The flood Mam and I experienced on Soi three in Thung Lung village (circa 2006), never entered our house, only coming into the car port, as the house we were renting was built very high off the ground.

But now that we’ve actually been in a severe flood, I’ve noted there are many things you don’t think about while sitting in the comfort of your home watching a flood somewhere else on T.V., the village people all wading around in waist deep (or deeper) water, with broad smiles on their faces…the kids happily splashing about and having the time of their lives.

"Kids..." what it would be like to be a kid again without a care in the world, except where my next candy bar was coming from...

I mean there’s really nothing much you can do about it, except move things about and to higher ground, so why get all bummed out about it…right?

First off, there’s the smell.

The flood waters cover everything on the ground, and with that, they pick up oils, gasoline, kerosene, and other chemicals from inundated garages and junk yards.

Sewers and honey wells back up, animal excrement floats about, and after a few days, bloated carcasses of dead animals float around, eventually getting stuck somewhere in brush…hopefully not near your house.

Secondly there is the issue of water.

Quite often dug wells become contaminated by flood waters, turning what was fairly decent drinking water into cloudy bacterial infestations. Ground water often becomes undrinkable after being contaminated by oils, fuels and solvents. And if your well isn't a gravity feed and you have a well pump, whether your well is contaminated or not, the electricity is usually shut off so you cannot get water from your well.

All it takes is just a few hours without water to begin to understand what an important commodity it is.

Thirdly is the electrical situation.

As the flood waters rise, the electric company (EGAT, the Thailand monopoly) shuts off service to protect people from electrical shock or damage.

Like the water situation, it only takes a few hours to begin to fully appreciate how much we rely on this important utility.

Fourth and last (there’s more, but this posting is lengthy enough) is the clean-up.

One word: Filth!

Cleaning up after a flood is not something for someone with a weak stomach, especially if the flood water has hung around for a few days or weeks.

Then, there is the issue of residual odor. Things smell stale and musty for days or weeks.

Concrete (what the lower floor of our cottage consists of) is like a big sponge. It soaks up the water and takes weeks to dry out…months if the rains continue.

Mam was upset by my incessant cleaning saying it wasn’t necessary, as I first hosed everything down until the water ran clear, then I washed the floor and walls with a cherry scented cleaner, then I followed up with a half-strength solution of Detol® and water, a fairly strong, pine smelling, anti-bacterial.

All I said to her was, “What would you do if your neighbor came over here and pooh-poohed on our floor? Would you just wipe it up with a piece of newspaper?”

It’s been approximately three weeks since our flood, and the concrete floor still hasn’t thoroughly dried, but the musty smell has finally left us.

The meteorologists say the Northeast monsoon has stalled over the insurgent Deep South, including Yala, Pattani, and Narathiwat…all of which aren’t really all that far from us.

STAY TUNED!!!

-Jeeem-

This is a funny Bizzaro© cartoon I found in Bangkok Post's Sunday edition last Sunday.  

It's so true and clever.  That's exactly how Aussie's sound!


-Jeeem-

November 2, 2009… It’s that time of year again here in Thailand, with the celebration of the favored holiday, Loi Krathong.

(My apologies since I’m late in posting this, but Blogger.com had a glitch preventing me from uploading photos)

I’ve posted about Loi Krathong before, but thought I’d do it again simply since it’s a big deal to my wife Mam, who really gets into this stuff…being Thai and all.

Mam approached me at my computer desk yesterday afternoon and presented her Krathong for my approval. I always think they are a work of art, but she’s very critical of her work and really wants to know what I think, so I put on a show of looking at it for a long time with that “critical” look on my face as if I was really scrutinizing it carefully.

“Well…

(I said at last, with an exasperated tone for effect)

“I think it is truly one of your best.”

Then I went on to explain why.

Well, she didn’t fall for it, since she remembered the one from last year, which she stated had much more detail, and according to her, was far superior to this year’s creation.

Ah well, I’m busted.

“Well, I really do love it!” I said. To which she added, “You always say that.”

Ah well…

So what was different this time?

This time I pulled her aside and asked her…

“Mam, I want to put something about Loi Krathong on my blog. Can you tell me simply, what Loi Krathong is all about?”

“Huh?”

I wasn’t sure if this was a language issue, or she just didn’t get it, so I got more specific.

“If I do a search online for ‘Loi Krathong’ it comes up with about three hundred twenty-nine thousand, nine hundred and forty two possible websites that have something to do with the subject Loi Krathong and most of it is just a complicated mish mash of Buddhist stuff that I don’t want to bother with posting on my blog.”

Can you simplify it?”

“Well, Loi Krathong about…you know…’Wai’ (hands held together in front of face in prayer gesture) for water. Uh, like pray to water for being good to us [sic].”

“Ah…okay. So it’s like you are praying…or giving homage (alms of a sort) to the water god or something like that.”

“Yes, but also to let go all bad things about you.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“You remember last year I clip your toenails, fingernails and clip hairs from your chest?”

“Yes.”

“That for water god to take away bad things about you.”

“Oh, I get it. Like cleansing (cleaning) yourself of problems?”

“Yes, like that.”

“Ok. Thank you Mam. You’ve really helped.”

The thing here, dear readers, is my exact point. You can ask several Thai’s the same question and get many different answers. It means many different things to many different people. Like many ancient celebrations or events (regarding anything…hum…Christmas comes to mind…in any part of the world), things have gotten a bit distorted over the centuries.

So, I’ll leave it up to you to do some research on your own (if you so choose). For a start, you can go HERE to the Wikipedia site, which tends to be a bit confusing, but supposedly is fairly accurate.

Me? I’ve done the research, and have found that after you read one website that spouts on and on about Buddhist history (which is a tad confusing in and of itself), you’ll end up reading another that says absolutely nothing about the Buddhist religion and only touts extensive information about water worship, forgiveness, and letting go of deceit.

Like much of life, things just get watered down after a couple decades or so…

To many foreigners living or vacationing here in Thailand, it’s a fun time to enjoy learning how to make a Krathong, taking their Krathong on Loi Krathong day to a river or some body of water, making some sort of wish similar to the falling star thingy, lighting the candle and incense, and placing your Krathong in the water, watching as it sails away.

Naturally, this has been going on for a long, long time here in Thailand, but of late there has been a big push to fashion your Krathong out of some sort of organic material that won’t end up harming the environment.

The base of the Krathong is typically made of a sliced section of banana trunk. Then you just build upon that, wrapping it in banana leaf an adding folded sections of leaf for effect, kinda like how they fold napkins in fancy hotels. Many things are used to hold everything together, but Mam usually uses either the thorns off our sour orange tree, or toothpicks. Add some flowers, a couple candles, some incense sticks and you’re good to go!

Once your Krathong is in the water and your wishes are headed toward the God of Water, if you take a little jaunt down stream a bit, you’ll undoubtedly see a large group of Thai kids who have formed some sort of dam in the river and are rummaging through the Krathong, looking for money and the like. Many people place coins or paper money on their Krathong as part of the “offering,” however this practice appears to be waning lately, probably because people don’t want to contribute to some kid’s candy money.

After the floating off of your Krathong, it is then unofficially part of the celebration to proceed in drinking loads of beer, shooting off massive amounts of fireworks, eating hoards of Thai food, and ending up at some party singing Karaoke until the wee hours of the morning.

I wonder…How much of that stuff occurred centuries ago?

Probably a lot is my guess.

Every year, my classes are skimpy after Loi Krathong since many of the kids who do show up are brain dead the next day since they stayed awake all night listening to their parents drunkenly sing to some Karaoke teleprompter.

-Jeeem-