Mundanity becomes everything
Graham Lawrence
22nd August 2021
And so, after around 18 months of this covid pandemic, things are really not getting any better sitting in a small apartment in Bangkok. Every wander to the supermarket or market to get food is just an exercise in walking past the bankrupt, boarded businesses, the increasing number of homeless and the hordes of beggars if you approach the underground stations. Of course, apart from markets and supermarkets, food stalls and stand-alone necessary shops, nothing is open. Nothing of course except for the shops breaking the rules and massive buildings that will not force closure in their tenants’ operations.
The government in their full incompetence are hated to a degree not seen in Thailand in the 30-years that I have been here. But of course, they have the uniforms, guns, tanks, courts and the people who count the votes on their side even if not the people. And their latest toy the riot police nightly descend in a crescendo of violence upon the poor people of Din Daeng who dared to want to march and demonstrate outside the army base where the prime-minister lives. Passers-by and the local communities are equally punished with fusillades of tear gas, water laced with chemicals and volleys of rubber bullets fired directly at heads and backs. Of course, the superiors of these crowd control officers say everything is done by international standard. I guess they measure international standard by Zimbabwe or Ukraine. This where I find myself. No not just me, but my family even if divided by distance.
Today I ventured out to buy meat at the Lotus under one of the big buildings on Rama 4 Road. That meant heading to the underground station of Samyan to access the underpass that exits directly into the building. Convenience abounds for the wealthy and middle-class office workers if not for the armies of workers confined to crowded 30-year-old buses poorly kept footpaths in the blazing 30 to 40 degree sun and humidity approaching 90% at times in what is currently the rainy season. Sweat you may, but it is not going to evaporate and so sits like a sheen of grease across the face or stays soaked into a shirt or waistband. Even a short walk is not comfortable.
It is also a Chinese festival today and my wander leads through the poorer extremes on the outer reaches of Chinatown. The smell of burning paper fills the air as aging people stuff fake paper money, cardboard replica gold ingots and pictures into the flames coming from rusty metal bins. It is the Ghost Festival. Tables with lit candles, food and utensils sit nearby. I am not sure if for the living or the dead. I move on. It is their festival and not right to wonder. Being a festival, the number of beggars lining the main street on the hundred metre stretch between where I exit the local alley, pass the rescue foundation and then walk to the entrance of the underground is trebled. Generosity expectations are clearly higher on a festival, or maybe it is just I have not walked this path since last Sunday and not noticed the increase. The street performers who used to be there are long gone. The food carts too. Now it is just beggars, those selling lottery tickets and those entering the foundation to make donations or buy good will for them and their family. I walk quickly. The prospect of getting meat and ear drops appeals more. My wife Jeab walks alongside me, but we do not exchange conversation in our masks. She however, comments on the number begging in that hundred metre walk. There will be time for chat when buying or when back in our small apartment in the centre of Bangkok. While walking with sweat running through hair and into eyes and breathing through a mask with eyes down to avoid the requests for money time is best spent on the task at hand.
Earlier today, as once every month, we had driven the car on a 10-kilometre loop to keep the battery charged and tyres moving. Up Surawong Road past the empty hotels, shuttered and bankrupt businesses. Past the closed massage parlours and what were once the bustling nightlife zones of Patpong and the empty desolate Shenanigans Pub. Past the Roadhouse Bar and out turning right onto Rama 4 Road. Then it was right onto Silom. It is Sunday so quiet even in the financial heart of Bangkok’s central business district – one of the few still busy weekdays. It did not take long to get the down Silom and turn left onto Charoenkrung Road. There were a few stalls selling fruit early. No doubt the festival involved fruit, too. Everything else was closed and only a few cars and a number 77 bus spewing black fumes. The circuit took us back up Sathorn Road with its new sky train station almost next to the old one. Sathorn not an interesting Road to drive up. Then back to Rama 4, turn left and then left again onto Silom. This time on hitting Charoenkrung it was right and straight past the huge Assumption School, which like everything else was currently closed. Soon on the right we hit the Si Phraya Road turn – almost home. Another street of shuttered dreams and business. Soon I park. We are back.
“We need some fruit and tomorrow is Monday and the stalls cannot sell”, Jeab says in the open car park of our small apartment.
“OK, let’s walk down to Wat Kek Soi,” I think and say. “We can get some dragon fruit and some pears”. I have my red back pack with me and she her small shoulder bag. We head out.
“Grapes. Let’s get some grapes but not the same as last time. They were too bitter.”
And so it goes, as we pass the closed Nielson Hays Library and head down the market on Soi Pradit known as Soi Wat Kek to everyone. Fruit is cheap and plentiful. There will never be a shortage of food in Thailand. We have our three fruits and so all that leaves is breakfast. This is where we find ourselves. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. And the clock of life ticking on us all.
It gives you an idea, and I am sure you do not want to hear about choosing and buying meat.
