Hot, hotter, hotterist-

The cool April temperatures of New York City quickly spoiled me. Now that is the kind of weather in which I want to live. It was perfect, sunny and warm in the day with a slight breeze. It’s layering weather allowing one to put four or five things on at the same time. There’s something very Ginsburg (or Olson Twin) poetic about walking around Greenwich Village wrapped in a scarf trying to decide what art exhibit to go to while gulping down a cup of Grey Dog coffee before the chill air gets to it first. Then there’s something very Siddhartha about waking at five in the morning only to experience the temperature outside to be already well in the 80s with a hearty side of humidity for good measure. The climate controlled bedroom of 25 degrees, cries as the heat rushes in from the open door, threatening all that is good in the world. I breathe in the thick air, like I’m sucking on the spout of a boiling teapot. Quite the contrast from New York City.
While in the “Big Apple,” we missed the celebration of Sangkran, which is a traditional Thai water festival that marks their New Year. During this weeklong celebration it is customary to throw water on people. Sweet huh? Locals, tourists, dogs, cats; it doesn’t matter who you are or what you’re doing, buckets, sprinklers, hoses and water guns are used to douse people all over Thailand. Apparently even business folk on their way to work are not spared the symbolic gesture of cleansing and goodwill. Oh, in addition I guess people smear colored powder on each other too. Damn, we miss all the good stuff! What we did witness upon our arrival back to Thailand were the many cars that were covered with handprints and splattered with dried paste powder, similar to what we would do to a bride and grooms’ car after they get hitched.
Starting out the day with a cold shower has common practice for me these days, and is probably the most comfortable time of day for me. It’s as good as I’m going to feel until I reach the next enclosed space with air conditioners set full blast. Fortunately it seems fashionable to complain about the heat here, and I’m surprised at how often the Thais do so. It’s strange, you’d think that they’d be used to it by now, you know, something that comes with the territory of being Thai and living in Thailand. But it still seems to bother them too; they’re like a fish complaining about being wet all the time. And what I want to say is, “right, it is hot, can’t you do anything about it…I mean, you live here and all.” But the beads of sweat on their brows remind me that we’re all in the same boat…or at least in the same very hot country. (Okay, it’s not that bad…yet.)
The drive to the Mariani plant takes about forty minutes. Thank the holy lord that it is in a van with good AC. I quickly adjust the two overhead vents to shoot right down into my face. The thin layer of sweat accumulated on my face in the time it took to reach the van from the front door of the house, quickly cools and I lay back in clammy dampness thinking ‘chill’ thoughts. We stop briefly a few blocks away to pick up one the plant’s financial manager Jidapa. She’s the one with two dogs named Pepsi and Pizza, one of which currently wears one of those plastic lampshade things over its head. We then venture out of Country Home Housing Community and quickly into the real countryside, through landscape that could easily pass as the location for films like “Platoon,” or “Casualties of War.” In fact many films about the Vietnam War weren’t actually shot there, but in Thailand and other surrounding countries. The morning sun is just starting to break through the clouds, casting the sky in a pastiche of grey, blue, orange and pink. The distant foliage is shadowed in contrasting layers in the morning mist, like a giant diorama cut from different shades of grey paper. We pass shanties and huts, some are houses, some are shops presumably catering to a very local, very small clientele. Old men sit outside on wooden tables greeting the morning sun on their wrinkled faces, as women sweep the dust from their front stoops. Further down the road a man in his underwear stands before a horse tank splashing himself with water, the equivalent of a morning shower. Groupings of food stands with colorful umbrellas open for breakfast, smoke rising from their grills as commuters on their way to work dismount their scooters to pick up fruit, rice, cooked fish or other meat. At this point I’m wishing that we had some milk in our refrigerator so I could have had a bowl of grape nuts. Fish for breakfast isn’t sounding half bad. A bag of mango steins Natalie brought along beckons me to rip one open and suck out its white pulpy insides. But I am not yet cooled down enough to make the effort.
Despite the beautiful landscape that unfolds outside the van windows, a day doesn’t pass, where Natalie and I don’t think we’re going to hit or be hit by another motorist. The roads are seldom more than one lane each way, and yet the Thais treat them as if the whole thing is fair game. As long as two vehicles aren’t trying to occupy the same space at the same time, it’s all-good. Needless to say we suffer many a white knuckled situation, as drivers who lack even a modicum of regard for human life feel it necessary to go as fast as possible while taking blind corners in the wrong lane. I’m constantly amazed that we don’t see more accidents then we do. This got me to thinking that the experience of driving in Thailand is actually a perfect example of Zen at work. Indulge me as I channel my inner Buddha and see a connectedness in what outwardly appears to be a frenzied, devil may care attitude towards ground transportation. Somehow, the Thai drivers unite in what I’d like to think of as a “movement mentality.” They don’t meditate about high-speed collisions, or entertain the thoughts of how dangerous it is to travel at such a high velocity towards oncoming traffic. They just go. Each vehicle moving in harmony with another, like blood cells moving through arteries of the body, or swarming ants working their way through the intricate tunnels of their underground bunkers. The ants don’t bonk heads, or run into each other. They simply move, with one mind, one consciousness. I look outside the window in time to the chalk marks outlining a body left from a fatal accident on the by-way. It’s then I realize that we are neither ants nor blood cells, the Thais are Bo “The Bandit” Darville behind the wheel, and that we are probably going to die before seven am. But we don’t.
We make it to the factory, unscathed and happy to be so. Shortly thereafter I enjoy a cup of “coffee,” which is to say I enjoy a three-in-one powder, that when added to water offers up an instant “coffee drink,” combining coffee, sugar and cream. Great in theory, and practicality, but I miss the dark roasted, whole bean coffee that I’ve come to love thanks to Howard Shultz and his little green mermaid. The Farang has spoken.