In my country, people ask you “what do you do” in order to know who you are. They especially ask this of men, as certain women still feel comfortable describing how their husbands make a living in order to answer that question.

But when you’ve finally given or thrown away most of your belongings, sold the rest and moved across the world with a couple of suitcases in hand, chances are there is no answer to that question. At least there is no answer that would impress anyone in a casual conversation. Thoreau wrote about this in Walden. His neighbors were sharply critical of him for not striving to get anywhere, to fight for any cause, to help the unfortunate or weak. He was just taking care of himself! A sin, to their way of looking at things.


The Return of Flying Season

This was just in the news here. Usually now is the slow season for this kind of thing.




Flying Season starts at Christmas and ends about the beginning of May. About three foreign men per week, sometimes more, choose to end it all. There are probably other less dramatic, less easily visualized ways to commit suicide, but the one that captures imaginations is this. Like the Golden Gate Bridge, the balcony proves a lure for those so inclined.

Yes this is the time when foreign men inexplicably begin to leap to their deaths from the balconies of their high-rise apartments, usually in Bangkok, Pattaya and Phuket. The above news story is not uncommon here in Thailand, where many lonely foreign men eke out their final days. Apart from the vicissitudes of senescence itself, the gnawing realization that the girls who have been so attentive have been more interested in your wallet than your personality finally gets to quite a few of these guys. The Thai police always rule these balcony jumps as suicides, even if the man is found with his hands tied behind his back or his head in a plastic bag found thirty feet from the body. These bar girls have brothers and boyfriends and to them, this is no game.

Loneliness kills, no doubt about it. Most of them are probably suicides, because this is the jumping off place, the place you wind up when you can no longer imagine life anywhere else.





Isaan, Thailand’s Iowa

DSCN1462 DSCN1362dscn1509

DSCN1453 DSCN1463 DSCN1472 DSCN1493 DSCN1514

Wipa woke up yesterday morning complaining that she missed her mother. Because I am completely retired from work and have few obligations, we were able to decide to visit Mom and leave that very day, so I bought three train tickets, one for me, one for Wipa, and one for the motor scooter. We took the afternoon train from Chiang Mai to Lopburi, gateway to Isaan, and then rode the scooter to Wichian Buri, where her mother lives.

This is her home town, so I trusted her when she said she knew how to get around, and didn’t bother to consult a map beforehand. We arrived at four a.m., after spending the night in sleeping berths on the train, which were freezing cold, as has been my experience with Thai trains in the past. So I hadn’t slept well, and I became increasingly grumpy as the trip which had been promised to take one hour stretched to four.

As we drove on in the dark, and then into the dawn, it became increasingly apparent that she had no idea where things stood in relation to one another, what were the distances involved, how to estimate travel time, and that’s why she asked everyone she met along the way for directions.The girl selling flowers on the street, the man cutting weeds along the highway, various sellers at small town markets, all offered opinions, many of which were contradictory.

So Wipa and I had our first tiff, which wasn’t much of a fight, because not speaking one another’s language we can’t really argue effectively. I can’t really fault her for not knowing her way around, as her late husband took care of all that before he suddenly and unexpectedly died almost two years ago. She had never in their twenty-five years together been forced to navigate.

But we finally made it to her mother’s house and I took a profound nap, lying on a wooden pallet that served as a bed. I don’t think her mother likes me much, but I don’t care. Mom is a year older than me, and the only thing we had to talk about when we first met was in comparing our blood pressure and cholesterol medicines. Mom also chews “maak” which I think we call “betel nut.” A lot of older women chew it here. I makes you spit out a deep red juice and turns your teeth black, but if you’re no longer worried about the opposite sex finding your attractive, maybe the buzz or high is worth it.It seemed to make her mother act a bit intoxicated, and she talked on and on about lucky lottery numbers she intended to purchase.

The floor in Mom’s house in rough concrete, so all sitting and eating is done on a raised wooden platform. There are no chairs or tables. The bathroom consists of a squat toilet with a large ceramic jar in front of it which you can grab onto to prevent you from falling backwards as you squat over the opening. I learned this the hard way. The jar is stable because it’s full of water, which you use in lieu of toilet paper, applying it with the fingers of your left hand, which you later wash with soap and water.

All of it seems very strange to this Westerner, and big stoneware jars, some the size of a small elephant are all over the place. The concept of water on demand seems fairly recent. Speaking of elephants, a nephew, seventeen years old and clever, has the nickname “Baby Elephant” which he responds to without shame. It seems that most Thais have at least one nickname, and we know a young woman who has legally changed her name four times already, in search of good luck.

Isaan is Thailand’s Iowa and Nebraska. But it’s Iowa before World War II, and the soil isn’t nearly as good. Half the vehicles on the roads are agricultural machines, the most unusual to my eyes being a tractor/truck with the engine mounted over the front wheels and then long handlebars leading back to a driver on the vehicle behind, usually a platform big enough to hold five or six more people. These are called “lo thai noi.” For casual transportation, people use motorbikes. Standard displacement is 110cc, and some of them look like they’ve slogged up and down many a dusty road. I’ve even seen large families walking what appear to be long distances. In general, the populace seems happy and well-fed, though perhaps too busy working to brood about what they don’t have.

We are in Phetchabun, a part of Isaan that is not flat, but rather peppered with tiny mountain ranges. Some of these are quite high, but they are not long, extending only a few miles. It lends a Dr. Seuss effect to the landscape, and I’ve never seen any place quite like it. There are huge rocks lying about in the fields, but they are not black, as they were in Nicaragua, which makes me think their origin in not volcanic. In fact everything lithic seems dusty beige or dusty rose.

We went to the market, where a woman my age who recognized Wipa greeted her and, after noticing me asked in Thai, “does he have money?” She obviously assumed that I didn’t speak Thai, but I could tell that Wipa knew I understood her question and was embarrassed by it, later commenting that Isaan women gossiped a lot.

The women in the market all knew who she was and all noticed me. Even though we couldn’t hear what they were saying, we knew they were talking about her first public appearance with the aging foreigner.

Even more chaotic and dirty than most I’ve seen, the market teemed with tubs of frogs, eels, snakes and unhappy fish writhing in their last moments on the planet.

There is a crematorium right next to the market, its tall chimney disgorging the ashes of human remains within a few yards of the ramshackle stalls that sell food. Again, I found this strange, but no one else seemed to. We bought some fruit and snacks and went to the nicest park in town to eat them. It wasn’t a very nice park, as parks go, and as with most of the best places in Thailand, was some sort of Royal this or that, with signs thanking His Highness for his generosity, and shrines to his lineage, the Rooster King, while thousands of painted ceramic statues of roosters abound here and there, placed just where you might want to sit in the shade and have a picnic.

Wipa owns a house nearby, for which she receives a considerable rent, because it’s well-situated on the main road, near the aforementioned park. It’s an old-fashioned teak house, which someone has painted burnt orange. She seems to think that an improvement.

We left town today to drive two hours to her sister’s house. On the way we were going to stop in a mountain village to visit a cousin, Go-Go, a minute ladyboy who speaks some English, for he worked for a time as a bellhop in Pattaya, Thailand’s Sodom and Gomorrah-By-The-Sea.

At the market we bought snacks to bring to Go-Go, because he has very little to eat, but a change of plans resulted in us delaying our visit with him until tomorrow. I fully expect this visit to be full of the kind of adventure that has characterized my time in this country so far.

The sister’s family is a happy one. Their house is large and bright, with a huge linoleum floor on which they sit for meals. They have a large screen TV and a satellite dish and the TV is always on. Most Thai TV shows sound to me like cartoons, because the sound tracks have been augmented with canned laughter, beeps, boings, twangs and whoopee noises.

They’re farmers and I get the impression that they work from dawn to dusk. They own their own tractor and farm about forty acres, which here is a lot, for most labor is manual. Every day before cooking dinner the wife must pay the field workers their daily wages, and retrieve any implements they may have used. Both harvest and planting are done by hiring large crews to stoop, yank and drag. The men I see are small and wiry. Here the sun is the enemy, and every inch of a worker’s skin is covered by cloth.

Here, dark skin implies low status. When I showered at their home, I noticed that every lotion and soap advertised itself as “Whitening.”

I’ve noticed that people here don’t say “good morning” to each other. They’re not big on saying “goodbye,” either. The standard greeting here is “where are you going?” which to my ears sounds kind of pushy and demanding. People we meet always comment on the fact that I speak some Thai. Apparently, no one has ever met a foreigner who did.

Food is awfully important. Someone is always cooking and women are in charge of that. Children are sent scurrying on errands, usually run to the corner store to buy something. There are little stores everywhere, and vendors come by selling any and everything.

Go Go’s house is apparently a shack, but his mother has a nice place, though crowded with young children and draped with drying laundry. I swear there’s not a clothes drying machine in all of Thailand. Most clothes washing is still done by hand.

They were very sweet and urged us to move there, for we could build a new house just down the street. Other foreigners had already moved there, for the scenery and relatively cool mountain climate. No one could give me specific information as to where these men were from, but they all had younger Thai wives. When I asked what they did all day, they replied, “sleep, eat, boom boom (sex), sleep, eat, boom boom.”

Then they laughed pleasantly.

On the dirt road to Go Go’s town, we passed a motorcycle carrying two people, the passenger of which was a ladyboy, a transvestite in full make-up. Again, I thought this odd, for it would be the equivalent of driving down a dirt road in the Arkansas Ozarks and seeing the same thing.

Why Must I Worry About Retiring Cheaply?


Northern Thailand


Because if you’re like me and a lot of my friends, you fucked up. You forgot to get a real job or you mismanaged your money. That’s OK, some of us are like that. We still have good lives if we’re smart enough to get away while the going’s good. There are wonderful places where the cost of living is low enough so that even you can have a good life. Chances are these places are in the developing world. That can be a very good thing. The developing world is not as boring as the developed world.

Sure, you might have to learn a new language, but that’s not so bad, either. Fact is, people who don’t speak English aren’t necessarily stupid. Good health care is available almost everywhere for a price far lower than anything you can get in the United States. Of course if you need a really complicated, high-end procedure then it’s probably worth it to fly home and let Medicare handle it, or whatever your national insurance plan is called in the country you’re from. But if you can avoid that, do. Pay out of pocket. It won’t kill you, and then you’ll know the freedom of not feeling compelled to run away from your new home, a freedom from fear which will prove delightful on its own.

The Internet as God


It’s almost impossible for me to imagine life without the Internet, but here comes a second day without it. I’ve reset the router a dozen times to no avail. My chromebook is useless without the ability to be online. These things I’m writing may or may not be retrievable. It assures me that all changes are being saved offline, but where? There is no hard disc, no real operating system.

I can use my phone to check Facebook and Hotmail, but the screen is so small that it’s like trying to drive while wearing swimming goggles. It can be done, but only minimally and at great effort. So this is why there is precious little written on Facebook. Everyone is using their smartphones, and writing something longer than twenty words is a real chore.

I suppose I have made the Internet into a god, and find myself totally dependent on him.

In fact, I just read a Facebook post that said God is like oxygen, you can’t see Him, but your very life depends on His existence. That got me thinking…this statement is odd in at least two ways. Why bother to posit something that you have no proof for, yet you’re convinced is the most important fact in your life? Also, if He is so important and all-loving, why would God hide from us? A cruel jest?

The Internet just returned!  Now I can post this blog. I guess it’s Easter, if I extend this metaphor. He is risen!

Let Somebody Else Worry About It

DSC_1288 DSC_1295 DSC_1299 DSC_1301

I find myself habitually wondering if I should come up with a way to make money. I’m sixty-five years old, comfortably retired on social security and living in a place where even that income is more than enough. Being a foreigner, I can’t own land, but yet I am bothered by the idea that I should hurry up and buy some land and build a house, before prices rise.

This is surely nothing more than habitual thinking left over from when I lived in America, when I always felt poor, and worried that what little I had would soon be taken from me.

To counter these nagging thoughts, I merely tell myself “not today.” If becoming a land baron would really make me happier, then some opportunity will surely come along to make that possible. If not, then it simply was not meant to be, which is just fine with me, as I enjoy the relative simplicity of renting our little house and having as few responsibilities as possible.

If by some fluke of fate I do end up with more money than I need, then I will either have to give it away or start some charitable project, which I would then be forced to administer. No, let Bill Gates and Warren Buffett worry about those things. Today I’m quite proud of myself for having figured out how to reset the settings on my complicated camera to what they were before I toyed with them and messed them up. It is an amazing instrument and the pictures I took with it are unimaginably sharp. In fact here are a few. They are of trees along a stretch or road that takes off from near my house and climbs a nearby mountain.

I have heard that a rich man from Bangkok owns all this land, and I wish him well in all his endeavors. I hope he doesn’t sell the land to someone who will cut the trees down in order to make some sort of ugly resort, but if he does, I’m willing to focus my camera on other trees, for there are plenty around here to be photographed.

What Do You Do, Anyway?


The real answer most of the time would be “wait for guidance,” or maybe “seek inspiration.” In order to create an artistic product, you have to first of all make yourself available.  If you’re a writer, you have to stop scrolling through Facebook long enough to perhaps allow something bubble up inside you. If you’re a photographer, you have to take the camera out of its case and point it at things.

When you have little you have to do in order to exist, it puts you in a weird space. Instead of having a list of obligations to be met, and ticking them off as you meet them, you simply exist. You wait until you decide what it is you want to do and then even then you may not do it. You may simply choose to wait even longer.

When I was younger, I was terrified of being bored. If something promised to take a long amount of sustained attention, I would avoid it if I could. Waiting in a doctor’s office was agony, so was standing in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

My mother, a retired schoolteacher, would sometimes fly to see her children, and she always brought a book with her. If there were a four hour layover between flights, she didn’t mind, because she had her book. I remember being in awe of her ability of simply accept such inconvenience. Now that I am the age she was then, I can imagine it all too well. There are many things that no longer interest me.  Shopping is a bore. I would rather be hospitalized than go to a nightclub and watch live music. I no longer drink or smoke, and I’m not living under the delusion that young women may suddenly find me interesting.

So bring it on! Boredom is OK!

the author reading this piece can be found by clicking here

Give Us A Song, Mother


When you’re young, you don’t expect to know more than most people, and most people have that same expectation.  But then you graduate from high school, then University, and you suppose that your opinions matter. In fact, if you don’t suppose that then you’re really a washout, a nobody. In order to have and maintain status, you have to play the role of expert in at least some area.

Fast forward forty years.  Now you’re retired and nobody expects you to do much more than take care of your own personal hygiene and not cause problems for other people who are still stuck trying to make a living. Suddenly it’s OK not to know what’s up, what’s hip or hot, where things are headed, who’s responsible for what. It’s OK just to sit on the sidelines and wave as the parade goes by.

Sure, some old guys still like to argue about sports and politics with anyone who will listen or argue back, but deep down they know that their opinions no longer carry weight. Nobody cares, nobody’s listening, in fact, nobody’s even sure they’re in the right. They’re just flapping their jaws to hear them flap.

I lived in Iowa for a long time, and when driving through small towns one would come across the cafe where all the retired people in town were having coffee. In many small towns, retirees make up the vast majority of the population.  The men and women sit at separate tables, because their spouses certainly don’t care to hear their opinions on anything. When I would enter the room, all heads would turn to check me out, the stranger, just passing through. I was well aware that I would be the topic of speculation for a few minutes after I left, but that would quickly fade and broader topics would again take center stage, what’s wrong with young people today, which politician is the bigger crook, is allowing homosexuals to marry really causing this drought?

Some cultures award more status to the elderly than do others. Our culture puts of a premium of superficial attractiveness, and few of the elderly score highly in that arena. Where is the ten year-old who will ask Grandpa to tell that story again about an incident from his youth? Chances are Grandpa has never shared a story with this grandchildren, for the kids are all staring at a high-definition video display of a game, or mesmerized by their smartphones.

I have a friend about my age who lives here in Chiang Mai but who grew up on a farm in the west of Ireland.  The family lived in a sod house, whitewashed on the outside, dirt floor on the inside. No electricity or running water. After dinner, the family would gather in front of the first and one of the children would ask “Give us a song mother.” People still live that way in the poorest parts of the world, but it’s hard to find much of that in the somewhat developed countries, like Thailand, where virtually everyone has a cellphone that demands their attention every waking hour.


Cheap Fun Up The Hill

harmless fun




we live at the base of a big mountain, and at the top there is a Hmong village where they sell things to tourists.  Apart from a bit of agriculture it’s their only source of income. So we spent $1.50 and rented a traditional costume for Wipa and I took her picture in front of plants in their highly picturesque garden.  The village is atop Doi Pui, which is just west of Chiang Mai.  Takes about forty-minutes on a motor scooter up a steep and winding road to get there.

View original post