by Alex Gunn
Just as the counter signing was coming to an end and I thought I could sense the moment when I would be a proud director of a small company in Thailand my attorney said, “and now you must have the medical.” The whatical?
As calmly as I could I explained that our business didn’t require any physical exertion, in fact it required me to sit very still for hours on end listening and talking to people about their problems. He seemed uninterested in this detail and explained as calmly as he could, as though to a hyper active child at a birthday party, that in order to run a business in Thailand it was necessary to obtain a medical certificate. He directed me to a hospital, that for a modest fee (same price as a small bottle of mineral water back home, just in case you’re interested) would carry out the necessary medical examination, furnish me with a little certificate, that in turn would get me one step closer to actually being able to register a company and get the all important work permit.
This all felt decidedly worrying. What were they going to do to me? What would happen if I was found to be unfit to run a company? How fit was I expected to be? Should I have been in training? I had a terrible feeling that I wouldn’t be fit enough and all our plans would crumble and we’d be thrown on the streets of a strange Asian city and forced to beg for a living. I decided to call my wife double quick.
We found the hospital set back from the road on the east side of the city as the attorney had told us. It all seemed surprisingly calm for a hospital except for a weird bloke who approached us and announced that he was a doctor and shook my hand vigorously for ages welcoming me to the hospital, Chaing Mai and Thailand. I finally managed to get my hand back and feeling somewhat bemused by this enthusiastic welcome found the main entrance.
We went in and approached the lady behind the information desk who sat in a vast empty lobby. Unnervingly there was nobody else about. I wondered, somewhat hopefully, if Thai people just didn’t get ill much. The reception lady who spoke good English couldn’t work out why I needed an assessment. Feeling that she might be on my side I explained that I couldn’t understand why I needed one either. I then rather unwisely went on to explain the nature of our new business and that perhaps my attorney was confused. She asked if I felt confused. She looked worried and called over a nurse in a beautiful starched white uniform and an incredible hat. She too couldn’t understand what we wanted but repeatedly asked if I was feeling okay. She was talking in a slow re-assuring voice as though we were very stupid (actually, probably not too far off the mark). I had the feeling they were now eyeing me with some caution.
After some time of this faltering conversation she asked me if I knew where I was. By this time I was seriously wondering not only where I was but who I was. She said to me in a very calm re-assuring tone “you are in Chiang Mai, Thailand....you are in Chiang Mai Psychiatric Hospital.”
At such a moment, I’m sure that most right minded people would call it a day and go home, but not us. Not when you’ve moved the other side of the world having given all your geese away. Bizarrely the scene continued. She asked whether I felt I still needed a psychiatric assessment. Most wonderfully, I remember replying quite seriously “I don’t know.”
If you ever find yourself in any psychiatric hospital lobby unsure of whether you need a psychiatric assessment, you can safely assume that something somewhere has gone wrong.
To give an indication of how unhinged and muddled I must have felt at the time, I remember seriously thinking that as the business was largely based upon using mental skills instead of physical skills it makes sense to have a mental assessment rather than a physical one. The words “straws” and “grasping” should have come into my mind but unfortunately for me they didn’t. This was the hospital that the attorney directed us to after all, wasn’t it?
In the confusion I remember thinking that the hospital should have been further away. It was only at this point that I thought we had better go and check with the attorney. We backed away, thanking the nurse and receptionist a little bit too enthusiastically. We said goodbye to the “doctor” in the car park who was still loitering about and shook my hand again, and welcomed me again to the hospital, Chiang Mai and Thailand (they should give him a job at the immigration office).
So, back to the attorneys’ office. Did I need a psychiatric assessment? On reflection he responded brilliantly to what must have seemed to him a very silly question. But when you are in a land where you pay your electricity bill in the Seven Eleven mini market anything is possible, right? Still, it must have been the most bizarre question ever posed to him by a foreigner, let alone a foreigner hoping to set up what is essentially a psychotherapy business. Without hesitation, as though it was the most normal thing for him to deal with he asked if I was “feeling okay in the head”. I responded that I felt fine and he said that a normal physical medical assessment would be okay in order to apply for a Work Permit to start the business. He didn’t laugh, or seem to find it amusing at all.
We set off again and found the hospital that he meant in the first place, on the second corner of the moat road. I bravely went in explained the situation and was directed to the 7th floor where I waited with lots of other people with a little card with a number on it. After a short time my number was announced, both in Thai and kindly in English as they knew it was me and didn’t want to embarrass me. Thailand is like that. I was the only foreigner there. I was shown into a little room with a spectacularly kind and gentle young nurse who measured me against the wall, weighed me and took my blood pressure. I felt a wave of relief, was this all it was? Why did I get so worried?
She popped back in. The doctor would be along to see me soon. I was worried again. The measuring and weighing was clearly just a warm up. I sat nervously waiting for the examination/assessment.
Eventually the doctor came in. He was courteous and respectful. I stood up and we saluted each other in the traditional Thai way, as though we were both in a Primary School Assembly about to lead the children in The Lords Prayer, which bearing my physical condition in mind might have been quite appropriate. He had my notes and confirmed that I was Alex Gunn, that I wanted to start a business in Thailand, was 1.78m tall, that I weighed 80kg and had normal blood pressure.
He leant back in his chair, eyed me carefully and asked if I’d ever had any major illness, no I hadn’t, if I had any blood infections, no, or had any concerns about my health, no again. He wrote all this down and then leaned back and said, “so, why do you want to live in Chiang Mai?”
Every time I attempt to explain why I’m here it sounds either downright suspicious or utterly insane. As part of my faltering apologetic explanation, I had luckily mentioned my love of food, cooking and restaurants. He leant forward, his eyes narrowed and he looked at me carefully, “you like Chiang Mai food?”
We talked about food and restaurants and markets and where to get the best grilled catfish, the best street stalls for breakfast, who does the best chicken noodles, the best market to buy fish and why galangal is better than ginger. He finished by recommending me to his brothers restaurant in the old city (which I have now been to several times and which is of course excellent, thank you doctor). He put his special doctor’s half-moon reading glasses back on and signed a rather formal looking certificate. He summoned a nurse, passed her the paperwork, bowed gracefully and bade me goodbye.
I’d passed the medical! We were on our way. All we had to do now was transfer a huge amount of our overdraft to our new Thai business account, photocopy the medical certificate about a thousand times and countersign it, get the okay from the Work Permit Inspectors, employ some staff and we’d be ready to book in the first customers (or not as it transpired).
I’m not sure if a love of Thai food is a formal part of the medical exam and a pre-requisite for all foreigners who want to start up businesses, but talking enthusiastically about catfish curry and grilled pork with honey certainly seemed to help.
We went ba
ck down to the main hospital lobby. At the reception I paid 72 Baht for my certificate, controlled a massive urge to shout “it’s so fantastically cheap”, and felt ready to take on the cut and thrust world of commerce and running a business. Well, actually it was lunch time and I was more ready for a plateful of spiced pork sausage, a mound of warm soft sticky rice and some dark red dry chilli sauce. I’m sure my doctor, and my doctors brother would approve.
Chapter 6
First Day At School
Isn’t the first day at a new school terrifying. It’s somehow more terrifying when it’s in a foreign country and as the early days turned into weeks the first day of school for our children grew closer.
Do you remember your first day at school? I remember mine as though it were yesterday, sitting at the front of the class next to a boy called Andrew who had bright ginger hair and special educational needs (although in those days it was called “remedial learning”) under the ever watchful, spiteful eye of the ancient and unhinged, but ultra religious Miss Benewith. I used to go off with Andrew to the “Remedial Reading Group” where Miss Black, another ancient unhinged loony, would hold up enormous white cards with giant black letters and we would chant out the letters, sometimes even coinciding with the letter that Miss Black was holding up.
Luckily I got the hang of the old letters caper pretty quick and was shuffled out of the “Remedial Reading Group” into the fantastically named and confidence boosting “Bottom Reading Group”. I hoped things had changed a bit since my day.
I drove the children to their new school on my little rented motorbike on a clear warm morning in early October, three on a bike, just like the locals. The youngest was in front of me holding onto the handle bars with his little 7 year old hands and the oldest behind me holding onto my shoulders with his slightly older and more self conscious 10 year old hands. I sat in the middle as nervous as hell with my jittery 43 year old hands.
When it comes to schools there is no end of choice in Chiang Mai. There are seven fully fledged independent international schools as well as something delightfully called an International Annex which sounds like a large granny flat stuffed with school kids. On top of this, there are big Thai schools that run separate English Programmes and Bilingual Programmes and numerous Temple Schools attached to all the Buddhist Temples.
When we moved we really wanted to give our children the choice of where they went to school. It seemed a suitably fair and typically liberal thing for liberal parents like us to do. Secretly I was a bit scared of the Thai school option as I wasn’t sure where that led to later on in life and I was hoping they wouldn’t choose the super expensive boarding schools that also cater for day students. They are bloody expensive. They are so expensive I did the conversion sums on my little ancient solar powered calculator three times before I realized that I was doing them correctly.
From scouring the school web sites we decided to visit four schools before a final decision was made; a British school, two American schools and a big Thai school in the city centre that advertised an English bilingual programme.
Having taught and been around education since my first teaching job at the tender age of 23 in South East London (the words slaughter and lamb come to mind) I kind of know my way around education and what the general deal is. Nothing though could prepare me for the bewildering variety that lay ahead.
Chiang Mai is the Burger King of education, whatever you want, you’ve got it. You want to do British A levels…you’ve got it, you want to do an International Baccalaureate…you’ve got it, Montessori Nursery School…you’ve got it, Christian Kindergarten…you’ve got it, New Age Buddhist education…you’ve got it, Homeschool Support Programme…you’ve got it, American SAT with flame grilled onions and fries on the side…you’ve got it. Whatever you can think of, it’s available here in Chiang Mai, mostly at affordable prices.
Back in England we would never have been in a position to go shopping for our children’s education. It was a benefit that I had never even considered when we left home and it immediately made me feel very upper class and well off. I worked out on my crappy little calculator that for the same price that we paid for pre school child care in England we could afford for both of our children to go to, more or less, any school in Chiang Mai they fancied, excluding the boarding schools which they weren’t too keen on anyway (hooray). It was as much as I could do to remember my three rules and restrain myself from announcing this good financial news to everybody I met in the schools we visited. I tried my best to be cool and upper class, look well off and generally behave like a father who went shopping for his children’s education every other week.
By the end of our day, after visiting such different schools my head was reeling from the endless choice and cheap biscuits. No wonder School Principals and admission staff often looked pained and thoughtful; they are obviously trying hard to deal with the constant headaches and sugar rush from all the cheap biscuits they eat with prospective parents.
I quite fancied the Thai school as it really was fantastically cheap, but the children said they would not be prepared to have Thai school haircuts. Apparently it’s the law that all boys in Thai school have to have a regulation short back and sides hair style. I said feebly that I thought it would suit them but was shouted down amongst a barrage of other very good reasons why they didn’t want to go there; including the fact they couldn’t speak Thai which everybody else in the school did. I couldn’t really argue with that.
They didn’t like the big religious school very much but they did like the American School that looked like a boutique hotel and “had the big fish” and they did like the British School. It’s very interesting listening to how children pick schools and seems to have nothing to do with how grown ups would do it, or reality come to that. If you want a good, interesting and cheap day out with plenty of free biscuits, borrow some kids and do the grand tour of Chiang Mai schools.
Ultimately what seemed to swing it for both children was the eyes of the School Principal in the British School (School Principals please take note and get your eye drops ready). Apparently, and it was all lost on me, the School Principal of the British School has “very kind eyes”.
When we were in his office and talking about something boring and grown up to do with academic calendars our youngest son suddenly stood up, fixed the Principal with one of his accusatory stares and said “will I be able to speak English to anyone here I make friends with”. It was at this moment apparently that the Principal revealed the depth of his kindness by using the power of his eyes. He also said something very kind and reassuring and listened to our funny little 7 year old boy as though he was making sense.
Big moments are often decided by such little things. The kindly manner, and a particular look of a school principal determined the choice of school, a carefree moment around the kitchen table led us to deciding to come to Thailand and a random phone call found us our house. Perhaps, we should all stop worrying about the really big things and just pay a lot of attention to all the tiny things. Or, perhaps Chiang Mai is starting to get to me.
So it was to the British international school that we found ourselves driving towards, along the Hang Dong Road with thousands of other people on motorbikes all going to school and work, busy, busy, busy. It was only 7.30am but already it was hot and humid. It was the classic picture of a South East Asian city at the beginning of the day; thousands of people, often 3 or 4 to one motorbike, no crash helmets, chickens in wicker baskets, office girls on the back riding side saddle putting on their make up, manual workers with filthy feet and worn out flip flops and old ladies with huge bunches of green vegetables bundled on the back seat. It was the postcard picture that you must have seen duplicated with slight variation thousands of times, and now, amazingly, we were in it. Three little nervous, white English faces in the middle of a big South East Asian postcard.
I remembered the morning school run back in England
where we were cocooned from the elements by our big comfortable BMW. We would glide, effortlessly through picturesque Devon countryside, along tiny lanes with huge verdant hedgerows packed full of wild flowers. Here we were actually in the thick of it, in the merry, smelly vibrant throng of life itself, pushing and shoving, edging our way to the front of the motorbike crowds at the traffic lights. And then, suddenly, we were there, at the school.
Watching all the children go into school and all the different parents dropping them off made up for the homesickness and anxiety. It was like a Beneton commercial or advert for Pepsi Cola. There really were 23 different nationalities at the school, and not only that, they were all smiling, and running about laughing looking fresh and bright and happy. All these happy children from all over the world. Any moment the director would shout “cut” and they would become like the school kids I was used to at home. But nobody shouted “cut”, and the happy shiny, laughing multi-cultural, international children just kept laughing and being multi-cultural and international. Even the parents looked happy.
At the school that my kids had just come from in Devon there was just one foreign pupil in the whole school. Here they were going to be part of what looked like a big happy cultural melting pot. There were tall, blonde haired children going through the school gates with parents saying goodbye in a Scandinavian language, Indian boys playing cricket in the playground, Muslim mothers with head scarves waving to their children from big gleaming 4 wheel drive trucks and Thai children and Korean children and Japanese children and American children and children from all over the world.