My parents and parents-in-law worried about my safety in Bangkok. They had heard notorious stories about Thailand from their friends who have been here as tourists or through Indian media that highlight the nightlife in Bangkok, giving little information about the real Thai society. For all these reasons they worried a lot about me. They even warned me not to step out at night. Sometimes they even scolded my husband for not acting like my personal security guard, the way husbands do in India. They knew that I don’t have many friends, that there are no relatives to help me in case I have a problem; that I travel alone scared them the most. For one year, they kept calling and asking if I was having any problems at work or anywhere else. I could not explain to them why I was fine, despite being a foreigner woman. Only after my parents came here and saw with their own eyes did they understand why their daughter was safe traveling alone at 8 pm in local buses. It would certainly be a matter of concern for them if I was in India. They went back happy and satisfied that their daughter was in a good place and in good hands.
And even after they went back, I kept sharing with them the stories depicting the honesty of Thai people and how caring and concerned they are, particularly about women. One day coming back home after work, I fell asleep on the bus as I was too tired. When my stop came, I got down just in time, but realized only after I had reached home that I forgot my handbag inside the bus. It had all my money, some gold, my passport, and my mobile. For a moment I felt that I had lost everything. The thought of losing my passport was making me shiver. My legs started shaking. Suddenly I realized that I had my mobile inside my handbag and if I called it maybe somebody would respond. I called my mobile, and the conductor picked up the phone. I said, "This bag belongs to me. I forgot it on the bus.” The bus driver said that he was going to come by the same bus stop in the next two hours so I should come there and collect my handbag. Though I was skeptical, I decided to go back to my bus stop and wait for the bus there.
While I was waiting, I imagined all sorts of negative things. Would the driver really return my bag, or was he lying? What if he asked for lots of money in return? I felt helpless. But the moment the bus came up to the stop and I saw the driver come out with my blue handbag, I gave a sigh of relief. I thought, At least the handbag is there. I even thought that I would give him some money for his effort and honesty. The conductor and driver both came down from the bus with passengers inside, returned my bag, and asked me to check the bag to make sure everything was there. I offered them money but they politely refused. I got my handbag… with everything inside. I thanked both the conductor and driver, who smiled and said, "Mai pen rai,” which in English means, "It’s okay, no problem.”
This is the beauty of Thailand.
Neha Mehta is a freelance writer. She has a master’s degree in Mass Communication and Journalism and has worked with several newspapers and magazines. She has written articles for several medical portals like MedGuru and MedIndia. Presently she is living in Bangkok and is working as a lecturer at Assumption University of Bangkok. She is also associated with Bangkok-based magazine Masala, which caters to the Indian community in Thailand.
BREAD AND KNIVES
By Jennifer S. Deayton
First it’s two: a pair of neighborhood cops on patrol responds to the call. Then a junior detective and two more uniforms show up to make it five. Add two crime-scene technicians, another junior detective, and ultimately a senior detective in a well-made suit and, in less than an hour, the final tally comes to nine. Nine male police officers arrive at our Midlevels flat the morning after we’re robbed. No one is hurt. Not much has been taken. But we’re expatriates living in a nice neighborhood in Hong Kong. The show of force is both absurd and comforting.
It’s the week of Thanksgiving, and I’m thirty-six weeks pregnant with our first child. Eight and a half months gone, and I am huge. Swollen and uncomfortable, tired and anxious. I feel the baby’s elbow, or it could be a knee, lodged in my ribcage almost every night. I waddle more than I walk, and I get lightheaded if I don’t have something to eat every two hours. I’m trying to work up to the very last minute, wrapping up all of the loose threads before my maternity leave, even though I’d rather be at home napping, reading, or watching Prime Suspect. I should be leaving for the office right now. It’s Monday morning of my last week at work, but I’ve got the gangster squad in my living room and a husband with a morning meeting he can’t miss. We want to get a police report in case we need to file an insurance claim, so I call my office about the delay, kiss my husband goodbye, and sit down with the senior detective.
I can’t help but notice his hair, which is gelled and immaculate. Does he lay out his clothes the night before? Or wake up extra early to put himself together so well? He is calm, friendly but professional. He moves between English and Cantonese with an ease and fluidity that puts my college French to shame. He opens his notepad and asks me to describe what I saw…
*
The cats don’t greet me, as they usually do, when I wake. It’s only 6 am, the sun not yet up, but already I can feel the heat of the day in my swollen hands and feet. The back of my neck is moist, as is the bed sheet half covering my legs. My husband, Paul, doesn’t stir as I push myself up and out of bed. I feel tired already.
The summer refuses to break, even though it’s almost December, and the relentless warmth is driving me crazy. Where is my cooling fall? My turning leaves? I pine for a North American autumn of pumpkins and homemade soup, sweatshirts and football games. In Hong Kong everyone is still wearing shorts and T-shirts, sunglasses and sandals. It’s enough to make me curse the blue sky.
I pad to the bathroom—shoulders back, hips pressed forward, not quite ninety degrees upright—and I’m expecting one of our cats to weave between my legs and herd me into the kitchen for breakfast. But neither cat appears, and I don’t hear a single meow coming from the darkened hallway. In the half-light from the bathroom window, I sit down on the toilet. The tiles are cool under my bare feet. I close my eyes and try to cradle my head in my hand, but at eight months I can’t comfortably lean over the bulk of my body. I try to rest here awhile.
A mosquito has snuck in through the floor drain to investigate my ankles. I can hear it, but I can’t feel it, so I shift my feet in a futile attempt to avoid a bite. I want to stay on the seat as long as I can, with the cool tiles below me, but my thighs are starting to tingle, to fall asleep from the constricted blood flow. So I stand up and shake out my legs. I wash my hands and splash water on my face. The towel next to the sink was clean yesterday, but today it’s damp and already smells of mildew, an annoying scent that’s transferred to my face as I dry myself. The only things I can do are wash again and pull out a clean towel. The heat, the damp, the open drain in the floor, sewage rushing through pipes outside the window. We’re paying the equivalent of US$5000 per month in rent, and yet the air I breathe smells no fresher than what I imagine permeates a Kowloon tenement. Thick and squalid. The tropical haze of humidity, the relentless march of decay. And like the genteel ladies of a century ago, I need a handkerchief dipped in rosewater to press to my nostrils.
It’s these moments—too late to return to deep sleep, too early to be busied by the day’s needs—that I dread the most. I have time to consider complications and surprises. I fear for a stillness inside me and, God forbid, for all these weeks to end in sorrow. The baby books tell me I should feel movement every two minutes in the last trimester. Thirty times in one hour. I try not to be paranoid, to put these thoughts out of my head, but I can’t help but pray and rub my hand over my belly at regular intervals.
Down the hall, I stop in the doorway of the baby’s room and more smells—fresh paint fumes—greet me. We left the windows open overnight, but it will take another day to clear the air. Paul and I decided on buttercup yellow with an African animal theme. I admire the clean white crib and changing table, the sweet round rug on the floor. The new jungle-animal curtains hang listlessly in the breezeless dawn.
It’s all there waiting for our baby, for our new life.
I swore up and down that I’d never have children in Hong Kong, that I’d wait until we could live in a house with a backyard, the way I was brought up. After Paul and I got married, we discussed Hong Kong as a one-year option, long enough for me to complete my master’s thesis, before we’d explore someplace new—London maybe. Four years later, we’re still here and my body can’t wait. We’ve moved out of our newlywed’s shoebox to a colonial low-rise with high ceilings, a deep balcony, even a barbeque grill. We bought a secondhand car from a couple of teachers who were retiring to Cyprus. We got cats. It’s what passes for roots in Hong Kong.
My husband’s colleagues and my friends from work ask if we’ve hired a helper yet. The part-time cleaner we employ loves animals---doesn’t love children—so yesterday I began interviewing domestic helpers. I don’t know exactly how to interview someone who’s going to be watching my precious baby eight to nine hours a day, but a friend has given me three handy questions to ask. Question 1: Can you show me your passport? If the woman is in deep with moneylenders, not uncommon in Hong Kong, she’ll have handed over her passport as security. And if she can’t repay the loan, you’ll be the ones hearing from Shylock when he wants his cash. Question 2: What would you do in an emergency? If it’s not life-threatening, you call your boss first and foremost. And Question 3: What do you like to do on Sundays (her day off)? Because if she’s smart, she’ll say she goes to church and not the bars of Wan Chai. Ultimately, my friend tells me, you trust your gut and get a reference.
From the nursery I cross toward the kitchen door. I don’t see my wallet until I half-kick it across the floor. I look down and find it’s lying open, credit cards and receipts scattered in a jumble nearby.
My hand goes to my belly. I can’t think of a reason why my wallet would be on the floor. Last night, Paul had a late hockey game; we stayed out for dinner, then home, bed. The baby gives me a reassuring kick. I take a step forward.
There is a small storage room to walk through before you reach the kitchen, and I can just get round the corner without being seen. The walls in this odd bit of house are covered in white tiles and cabinets. A mantle of light over the stove in the kitchen creeps toward me. I try to stay out of its reach. Some detective, I think. My stomach will surprise the thief before I do. I press my cheek to the cool white tile and lean ever so slightly toward the kitchen.
No one’s there. The baby kicks again and I can exhale.
I pick up my wallet and remember that I had no money in it. My ID, credit cards, ATM card are all accounted for.
The sun is rising, but the cats have not appeared. I walk across the living room and see that the television and stereo are still there. I go into the small guest room off the living room and find my purse dropped on the floor, messy but intact.
Paul’s awake and in the shower now. I tell him what I think has happened. Once he’s dressed he discovers that his laptop and mobile are gone from the dining table, along with an old Walkman, which was in a closet and didn’t work anyway. We decide we’d better call the police. Paul’s wallet is still in his hockey bag, which he’d brought into the bedroom last night. He holds it in his hand, like a little lifeline, as we stand in the middle of our bedroom, looking at each other but not wanting to say it aloud: that a stranger—strangers?—broke into our flat and wandered around while we were asleep. We hope the computer and phone were enough for the thief, that maybe he didn’t open our bedroom door and have a look. We hope he didn’t stay long.
Hong Kong, you see, is not Third-World-compound land, like Indonesia or the Philippines. We don’t live behind walls and razor wire. We can go to almost any part of town or climb into any taxi, drunk on a Friday night, and know we’ll get home safely. And if we’re unlucky enough to get into a car accident, we don’t need to drive on out of fear of extortion or vigilantes. We’re safe to stop and call the police.
But now, the fact that someone has come into our house throws us. Makes us feel small and vulnerable. Makes us check our doors and windows for weeks to come. On the edge of parenthood, we’re getting a quick lesson in what it means to worry.
*
The detective needs an inventory of the stolen items, so I tell him what we’ve lost. He says it was probably an illegal immigrant, a mainlander, looking for cash or anything to sell, looking for food. He asks me if anything’s missing from the kitchen, anything from the refrigerator? Any knives? Any bread?
That’s when I start to see him, the thief in my home. The detective explains how he probably climbed in through the open window in the baby’s room. How it was a simple crime of opportunity. But I’m not really listening. I’m imagining this man in my kitchen, and I can see his face. His wind-reddened cheeks and dark eyes, so dark there’s no difference between the iris and the cornea. His coarse brown hands and crooked teeth are stained with nicotine. His black hair is unkempt, unruly. The description by an old travel buddy, calling China ‘a nation of bedheads’, pops into my mind. I can see his clothes bag and fall around his under-fed, wiry frame.
He’s a peasant, a farm boy, who’s never known comfort or softness or luxury. Only thin mattresses to sleep on, cold weather and field work in the mud and the rain.
I’ve seen him before, so many like him, squatting outside the train stations of Shenzhen, Foshan, Dongguan. Blameless, shifting men come in from the countryside, borrowed suit jackets hanging limply off their narrow shoulders, wearing ill-fitting, dusty slip-on shoes. They’re looking for work and wives in the towns that have sprung up amongst the cow pastures. Shell-shocked peasants, a constantly replenishing supply, flocking to the southern cities to polish computer parts and to shovel shit, to fall off building sites and to head xiang qian! Towards money. I’ve seen the stunned, dazed expressions on their faces, like time travelers dropped into a future that they can’t comprehend.
*
The police inspect the flat; they dust for fingerprints and confer in muted voices outside the kitchen. Then the senior detective tells me it’s unlikely they’ll ever find the guy. He’s probably back across the border by now.
Even so, the detective explains, my husband and I will have to come down to the Central Station to be fingerprinted for comparison and to sign the police report.
He motions to my stomach and smiles. "Please come down as soon as possible,” he says.
"Of course,” I say.
Later, after everyone leaves, and the cats finally appear from under our bed, I return to the baby’s room. I need to get ready for work, but for a moment I stand at the open window. It’s midmorning and I’ve been awake for hours. The day’s heat clings to me, thick and unyielding. I look out the window. We’re only two floors up, easy access for anyone desperate enough to shimmy up a drainpipe and climb inside.
Any knives? Any bread? For some reason the detective’s questions stay with me for a long time. A window into impulses both threatening and sad. And I imagine our thief stuffing bread into his mouth in the dark kitchen, bread that’s probably gone moldy, as it always does in Hong Kong if you leave it out for more than a day or two.
An officer has dusted for prints on the window frame, where the robber crawled in. The dust has left behind a greasy, black film, and I find tiny specks of it on the inside of my baby’s bright new curtains. I’m trying not to succumb to tears, trying for that steely resolve that expat wives are supposed to have. If I were back in the States, I’d be three days away from my dad’s pumpkin pie, the Cowboys game on television, and a long holiday weekend.
I’m just tired, I tell myself, as I stare out at the car park and the stacks of dull apartment buildings beyond our flat. I’ve had an easy pregnancy; there’s no reason the birth should be any different.
Jennifer S. Deayton currently writes and edits for travel shows, which you can find on NatGeo and Discovery TLC. She also likes to get together with friends to make short films. At therockmom.wordpress.com, she writes abou
t music and parenting, and is a featured blogger on SassyMamaHK.com and ExpatBlog.com. In a former life, Jennifer worked as an editor and technical director for CNN International. She recently finished her first novel and is in the middle of the excruciating rewrite process.
THE TRUTH ABOUT CRICKETS
By Pamela Beere Briggs
I awakened disoriented, finding myself curled up across the short width of my bed with my head pressed firmly against a window screen. In a half-dream state, my brain repeated the sentence I had been writing just before bedtime to my new pen pal in California: We live on Tonoyama-cho (cho is the same as street) in a neighborhood called Shukugawa on the outskirts of the city of Kobe, Japan. Then I remembered why my bed was not in its usual place. Out of growing desperation that came from being too hot to fall asleep, I had finally shoved my bed sideways to the closest window and squeezed my pillow onto the windowsill, where a whisper of a breeze finally soothed me to sleep. My head had left a dent in the screen like a shallow bowl. The garden was somewhere out there, covered in pure darkness, with no hint of the next day.
The crickets were still in the midst of song, confirming my suspicion that I hadn’t been asleep for long. Although I had learned the previous week that it was the rubbing of their wings that created the sound, I still liked to imagine them divided into choir sections with mouths wide open. Too sleepy to move my body, I laid my head back on my pillowcase, damp with sweat, and listened to the alternating waves of sound fill the air. They sounded like a million squeaky wheels racing each other. As I scratched an itchy mosquito bite on my knee, I remembered another cricket fact I had shared with my younger sister.
How Does One Dress to Buy Dragonfruit? True Stories of Expat Women in Asia Page 4