by Ken Austin
For anyone in either of these situations to say that they are unaffected is foolish. No doubt, like all things, it is all about degrees. Some progressive and wealthy families may say that they give not a damn about what others say. And to the degree that is possible, it is probably true. But it is impossible to insulate yourself completely from what others think and say about you. Even if its effect is only to make you rebuff those sentiments.
So the best course of action as an expat is to live your life and choose your friends carefully, protect yourself and share details with only those you trust. And when the sneering, barely concealed jab at your choice of mate inevitably comes, ask some pointed questions or make some similarly snide comments of your own.
And if that doesn’t work, drive your fist into the fucker’s nose, and when he has fallen to the ground and he’s clutching his shattered face, kick the piece of shit until you’re physically exhausted.
Death of an Expat
I didn’t think about my own unavoidable death for the first 35 years of my life. Barely crossed my mind. Oh sure, I read about other people dying in books and movies. Death plays a major part in all the dramas that we like to watch and read. But those dramas are all about other people.
And that is part of the appeal of all those movies and books. We all think about death in a very superficial way, but to read about other people dying reminds us that we are alive. And puts off indefinitely the need to really think about our own mortality. But subconsciously, it must gnaw away at all of us. For otherwise, why would vast portions of the world’s population willingly believe in fairly tales about eternal life?
Like most young people, my death was a far off and surreal notion that had no basis in reality.
But then out of the blue it really arrives. The realization that one day you truly will cease to exist for all eternity. What is the event that brings this realization about? Is it the death of a loved one? No, I don’t believe so. I have seen no correlation between suffering and the loss of loved ones and the ability to understand the temporary aspect of your own life in a visceral way.
For me it came as I approached 40. With more than 20 years of adult living behind me and perhaps 25 or 30 years left to accomplish what I set out to do in life, the ethereal, organic reality of it all exploded into my everyday conscious mind.
Suddenly, the horrible, inescapable reality that I was going to blink out of existence forever hit me like a ball-peen hammer straight between the eyes. I meditated on this for hours, days, weeks. It became a vivid, horrific scenario; the last minutes before going down for the final count. Ceasing...for eternity. It is the knowledge that it is all going to end. That you will never find out how it all plays out. You will never find out how your children will make out in the world. Never have a front row seat as the convulsions that shape history take place. Never be again.
But that is the whole problem with coming to terms, in a real, unflinching and honest way with your own inevitable demise. Language simply fails with regard to describing death. When all we have ever known is self-awareness, it is impossible to imagine anything else. And of course, not existing won’t be a painful thing. It just won’t. Be. Anything. But there goes the language failing again. Because any way you frame it, the notion is there, that you will somehow be somewhere else, still “you,” looking back on this existence and reminiscing, “well, I did enjoy it.” Even the line “ceasing to exist for eternity” implies that it is somehow a sentence that you have to endure.
The classic response from avowed atheists as to what comes with death: nothingness; implies an endless night of silky black horror, during which you are conscious.
Our notion of the final end is that we still exist but are somewhere else. Our lives are made up of various ends and new beginnings. Which is why the eternal-life narrative is so appealing to so many people. Many times I have wished that I could believe in those absurd, desperate attempts to convince ourselves that our conscious minds will continue on.
As soon as my own mortality started occupying such an immediate and, at times, horrifying place in my day-to-day thoughts, others things happened too. Those books and movies that had been part of my life in such a big way no longer had the same effect. So many popular depictions of dying and death are cartoon-like and insipid. To be sure, there are many superb and effective renderings as well, and enjoying those became all the more sublime.
I had another observation as well. It dawned on me that without really knowing it, I had been conducting a life-long study of how other people come to grips with their own mortality. Most people never do until it is too late. Throw-away clichés like, “might as well enjoy it while you can,” are a clear indication that the person making the statement lives in that state of relatively ignorant bliss and truly can’t comprehend that everything is going to come to an end.
Another classic is that observation that “I wouldn’t want to live forever.” Really? When all that exists for a person— their reality, eternity, and everything—is in their one and only life, why wouldn’t you want it to continue? Nothingness is a better option? Again, proof that the incomprehensible makes us rationalize and say patently illogical things.
The fact is, many people who offer up the “I wouldn’t want to live forever” nugget, believe that they will live forever. But they believe the infinite life will begin after this life, in some mysterious place where they apparently exist as some ghostly outline of their worldly selves. I would gladly take everlasting life on earth. It wouldn’t take but a few million years of contemplation to overcome the ridiculous notion that anything more than the horribly brief current reality is somehow too much.
Of course, not facing down the most difficult of truths in life is a completely logical coping mechanism. I often wish that I could return to that state. On the other hand, living with the reality that I can blink out at any moment has motivated me to make changes in my life and to strive to accomplish as much as I can, to give back and bring as much good as I can to those I care about. And, if a person is willing to face down the hardest truth of them all, then the problems we face along the journey become somehow easier to deal with, if more soaked in a fatalistic melancholy.
Any thoughts of suicide that I may have had as an angst-ridden younger fool have washed away for good. When you fear death so much and are obsessed with the desire to do things before you cease, the thought of sending yourself into eternity becomes ridiculous.
If only I could reach those people who have been overcome with despair and convince them that they should carry on. If only for the fact that the horrid fleeting nature of life will sweep them into eternity soon enough.
I just hope that when it comes, that I am with my wife and child and somehow I have managed to reach some kind of peace. Perhaps then, the terror will be lessened somewhat.
The death of a foreigner in Thailand, so far from home, and often before his worst demons can be confronted, is more poignant and heartbreaking than others—at least for other foreigners in Thailand.
To recount the life and final days of one such foreigner is one way that we can bring some meaning to his life and allow him to live a little while longer. Perhaps, just as we gain some sense of our own aliveness by hearing about others dying, so too memorializing others is a shameless hope that others will also remember us when we are gone.
The Beetle
The Beetle, as he was known to his closest friends, arrived in Thailand when he was 53. Born in Australia, the Beetle lived a carefree life of partying and adventure. He lived for many years in the Czech Republic and then drifted east, arriving in Thailand in 1999.
The Beetle gave new meaning to “going native.” He sought out authentic experiences that allowed him to really feel the culture and get to know the people. Living with a group of hill-tribe people in the north was one of his favourite periods of time in Thailand. He had no problem accepting the routines and found it a nice break from the usual.
He also liked the fact that this
allowed him to steer clear of other foreigners in Thailand. Sure, there were some decent people who he had met. But for the most part, he inevitably tired of the sameness that they represented and he ended up involved in some kind of confrontation with them before too long.
Alcohol was his constant companion and his disputes with other foreigners often were a result of his over-the-top consumption. He found work as an English teacher in a medium-sized town in the northeast of Thailand and quickly fell into the habit of getting fall-down drunk on weekends. Before long, his weekends started on Thursday evening, which meant that he rarely made it in to work on Fridays.
When he did roll in on Fridays, the stench of booze rose off him like the rancid odour from a corpse that had lain in the sun for a few days. Like so many alcoholics, the inevitable melodramas nourished him and gave him a purpose in life.
The fact that so many people cared about him and wanted him to set things right was also some kind of balm. But to a person who is immersed in the downward spiral of alcohol abuse, it doesn’t seem so cringe-worthy and borderline offensive. Because aside from the booze, melodrama is all the alcoholic has to sustain him.
When the crises and histrionics wear thin for many of the alcoholic’s friends and acquaintances, they start to fall by the wayside. Most people just don’t have time for someone who is perpetually dysfunctional. Most people won’t tolerate someone who doesn’t treat others with respect and decency. Alas, long-term alcoholics rarely treat others better than they treat themselves.
And so it was with the Beetle. He got drunk in public and blundered his way through the semester at school. He missed more days. He insulted more of his friends. Finally, he lost his job. Instead of accepting what he must have known was caused by his own actions, the Beetle chose to frame the dismissal as some kind of stitch-up.
He contacted a lawyer and together they worked up a case of wrongful dismissal. As irresponsible as the Beetle had been, and as justified as the school was in letting him go, apparently they hadn’t followed the word of the contract and a labour court ruled in his favour. He received a reasonable payout and promptly went on a bender to celebrate.
Though booze was the Beetle’s addiction, women were his passion. In Thailand, even habitual alcoholics like the Beetle still have a shot of landing a reasonably normal woman for a companion. When his repellent public behaviour drove off the most desperate women, prostitutes took up the slack.
In early 2002, the Beetle entered his most self-destructive phase. His remaining money was going to alcohol and prostitutes.
On Thursday, April 20th, he shambled into one of the city’s beer bars/prostitute pick-up locations and found a seedy looking young whore whose services he had procured in the past. With a few words they were off to his room, a short-term doss-house where you could pay by the day, week or month.
The Beetle liked this particular whore because she was business-like and tolerated the fall-down drunken state that he was in when he picked her up. She also had another feature that pleased the Beetle. She could acquire marijuana, a habit that the Beetle had been indulging in more and more in recent months.
As they settled onto his unmade bed, the Beetle rolled up a nice fat joint. He looked around at the squalor. Piles of dirty clothes and empty take-out food containers littered the tile floor. A cheap stereo system was on a table in the corner, and an array of cracked CD cases were on the floor surrounding the table. On his kitchen table were a few full ashtrays and a tea kettle. Not one of the new-fangled kettles with a base and a tall cylindrical, plastic container with a gauge on the side that showed how much water was left. This kettle was one of those old fashioned half-globe metal jobs with only a handle and a spout. The Beetle had picked it up at a local second-hand store. He liked its simplicity and it reminded him of the kettle that his mother had when he was growing up.
The stale air in his cramped little room smelled of cigarettes and that fruity, boozy odour that follows drunks wherever they go. The shutters opened out onto a fairly busy road and the noises from the street drifted in. His only other possession was a rickety old fan which would only operate on the lowest setting.
Perhaps the Beetle had a notion that his behaviour was becoming more self-destructive and dangerous. He knew that the risks associated with using illegal drugs in Thailand were real and ever-present. Still, a number of other foreigners indulged in the occasional joint and nothing had happened yet. Let the good times flow and damn the consequences.
Maybe there was just a little twig in his mind as he went to the toilet and saw the whore take out her mobile phone and start dialing. Maybe he even saw in his mind’s eye the ultimate drama taking shape as he shut the door on the toilet and heard her talking in hushed tones. He could understand Thai quite well and so he imagined that she was probably setting up another date for later on in the day. It was only 1:00 in the afternoon. He still had some money and was going to enjoy the high from the grass and the sex that followed.
He sat on the toilet and looked up at the drab walls. The calm reverie of an afternoon with no responsibilities overcame him as he listened to the dull drone of other people going about their daily lives down in the street. Maybe he would take a break from the bottle after today. The after-effects of benders like this were taking longer and longer to wear off. He knew there were a couple of schools in the area that were looking for teachers. And he would need more money soon.
The Beetle’s reverie was disturbed by banging at the front door of the room and then some shouts in Thai. He heard the door being opened and the sounds that come with the presence of a number of people where before there were none. Who the hell is it? He knew a few down-and-outers who lived on the same floor but they rarely showed up in the middle of the day. Why did she let them in?
He opened the door and saw four Thai police officers in his room. He looked toward the door and saw the merest hint of the whore as she ducked out. They weren’t interested in her. The Beetle’s guts dropped. He had been set up.
After the Beetle was arrested, news of his plight appeared on a discussion forum that was based in China but had a section devoted to Thailand. The Beetle was a popular poster on this forum leading up to his arrest for possession of marijuana in the spring of 2002. Before that time, he was the good-natured and affable Beetle, the secret of his alcoholism known to only a handful of people on the forum.
But as with any dramas that break into the open, a compulsion overtakes some people to share as much information as possible. The human need to share bad news is almost overwhelming and is often cloaked under the guise of letting people know with the hopes that others will step forward to help. That happens on occasion, but this was not one of them. It was voyeuristic pablum for the throngs, many of whom weighed in on with their views about whether the Beetle deserved what he was currently going through. He was banged up in a jail in the northeast, awaiting his trial for possession of marijuana.
The handful of posters on the forum who did step up and take charge of helping the Beetle as much as they could, were aware of the situation from almost the beginning. They started visiting the Beetle in jail and relaying his comments and general state of mind to the people on the forum.
Ostensibly, there were a few reasons for those in direct contact with the Beetle to comment on the discussion forum about the developing situation. They could pass on information to the gaping bystanders, and they could try to elicit donations.
They took pleasure in breathlessly posting on the thread with new information and expected court dates. They contacted the Beetle’s family in Australia and met one of the Beetle’s brothers when he arrived in Thailand to work with the Beetle’s lawyer and the Australian Embassy.
It should be noted that from all accounts it appears that the Beetle authorized the individuals who were helping him. In his state and situation, it probably was something to hold onto. The realization that there were people who were pulling for him was probably a source of hope. Of course, he could have n
o idea what was being written about him on the forum.
The comments about the Beetle’s situation fell into three categories. Some posters heaped scorn on him for being so stupid and getting involved with illegal drugs in a country that is known for having harsh laws. Their barely contained glee at seeing the Beetle get “exactly what he deserves” was a corollary of people who feel more alive when they hear news of relative strangers dying in mishaps. Others felt nothing but sympathy for the Beetle and wanted to concentrate on doing what they could to help him.
Did anyone from the group of supporters do anything tangible to help the Beetle? Visit him in prison or donate money? Aside from those two or three posters who were in it from the start and did everything possible for the Beetle—and they fall into the third category: people who expressed their concern and actually did something—there is not much evidence that anyone else helped in any real way. Some donations did trickle in to a fund set up to help the Beetle, but most people stayed on the sidelines.
The administrator of the discussion forum at that time was someone who lived in the same geographic area in Thailand as the Beetle. He had gotten to know the Beetle, had been on a few drinking sessions with him and had even helped the Beetle to find work on a few occasions.
As the Beetle’s current situation was due to his being in possession of illegal drugs, it was somewhat ironic that the administrator of the forum had for a user-name the chemical designation of a popular drug from the 1960s: LSD.
It was clear to anyone who read or posted on the forum that LSD had felt contempt for the Beetle for some time. Despite the fact that the Beetle had been one of the most prolific and popular posters on the forum, something had changed between LSD and the Beetle in recent months. No details were forthcoming, but it wasn’t hard to surmise that something in the real world had caused their relationship to sour somewhat. Also, the Beetle had made a snide comment regarding LSD’s wife, suggesting that she had breath that could burn a hole through a brick wall. Whether this was on top of other insults or misdeeds in the real world was not clear.