A FIVE STAR DAY

This is the dream of every Thai. I prefer a traditional stilted wooden bungalow.

Some time ago someone asked me how I implement spirituality in my daily life. I haven’t had time to sit down and come up with something the Dalai Lama would be proud of, so that mission is still on hold. However… a friend of ours called us to ask us to come over to his newly purchased high-rise condo a few kilometers south of our summer residence. We’re still having school summer holiday, as March/April are the hottest months of the year. Schools don’t have air-conditioning and they don’t want students to faint in class in their hot school uniforms.
Though we’re not doing badly ourselves regarding living conditions, our friend has a nicer swimming pool in the garden as well as a domed rooftop swimming pool on the 55th floor, as well as a sauna, gym, private beach and first class service. While I was reclining on a bed near his pool, I said to my friend that I am writing a spiritual web log but that I haven’t been writing much spiritual stuff lately. So I came up with a 5-star idea and decided to do a 5 minute-5-star meditation and a few 1st class yoga positions.
At six we were ready to enjoy a meal at a 5-star eatery on a nearby hill overlooking the bay and there was nothing spiritual about the bill. Thank God I didn’t have to pay. So, dear reader, I had a lovely day and feel in high spirits. I sometimes wonder how I would feel when being in India in the fall, experiencing zero star rooms with zero star food.
I just returned home as I need to do a little writing tonight and engage in an online interview around 11 pm. with someone on the other side of the world.

Full lotus with a half namaste.

Pigeon position, not perfectly executed as my foot should touch the back of my head, but I just twisted my back 10 minutes earlier when I fell out the back of a Mercedes.

Just showing off. At 44 I can still put both feet in the neck. This yogo-position must be one of my own inventions. I call it a Pantau-nose-to-knee-one-leg-in-neck.

Still in one piece.

Enjoying a nice view from the resort of the Thai Gulf.

View of the swimming pool from my friend's condominium.

Done!

THE THAI TOILET

I went over to a friend’s house yesterday.
“Hi sweetie, can I take a photo of your toilet?”
“What? Why would you want to do that?”
“I want to show foreigners who read my web log what our Thai toilets look like.”
“But your toilet looks nicer than mine.”
“Yeah, but I am not going to show people my toilet. Too personal.”
“Too personal?”
“Yeah, I use my toilet for very personal matters. If people can see where I do these personal matters, I breach my policy of not posting anything too private online.”
“You are so completely totally overwhelmingly incredibly… strange, you Dutch woman!”
“Why?”
“Because I read your books and you don’t care about sharing the most private matters with the world. Now you tell me that a photo of your toilet is too personal?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “Mad woman!”
“I know. Can I go upstairs and take a photo of your western style toilet? I don’t want people to think that I am using Thai squatting toilets at home, like the one you have downstairs. Actually I don’t know how to use them without soiling myself, the floor, the door or the wall.”
“What is your problem with squatting toilets?”
“I don’t like them. Somehow I don’t pee straight down when I squat. It goes a bit to the left and the front. If I squat slightly next to a squatting toilet and aim at 10 o’clock I may get it right, but that’s too much trouble for me. So I prefer the western toilets with the Thai shower. I am actually more interested in showing my readers a photo of the shower than the toilet. I think the Thai toilet shower is the best invention in history.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Since I have lived in Asia I haven’t used toilet paper. But in India you need to use a bottle or can of water to clean your vagina or anus, but the Thais have this fantastic shower-thingy. When farang have lived in Thailand for a while and have given up on toilet paper, they too fall in love with the shower-thingy. I am not alone in this. My western friends, male and female, also fell in love with the Thai toilet shower and can’t live without no more either. After a while you cannot understand how westerners can use toilet paper. So gross. To wipe your arse or dry off a pussy with paper? Yuck! I felt so dirty during my trip to Holland last month. I missed a toilet shower. No, the Thai toilet shower refreshes you after you pee or have a shite. Throughout the day you’re clean, refreshed, you’re without smelly or sweaty private parts, especially very practical in a hot climate in a country full of hot men where you can expect oral sex at any time.”
“You farang people are indeed crazy. And particularly you. But I like to hear that you love our toilets.”
“Yes, and what I also like about Thailand is that you male guys sit on a toilet facing the wall after peeing to rinse off your penis with the shower thingy.”
“Don’t western men clean their penises after peeing?”
“Very few use a bit a toilet paper to get rid of that last drop. I had lots of discussions with Americans about circumcision and why I don’t like it. They say: hygiene. I always answer: non-American boys understand hygiene and they wash their penises every day, you dirty Americanos! No need to mutilate the body. It’s against Nature. God created human kind perfectly, including foreskin. It’s like saying: God, we love your creations, but you created too much. So can I take a picture of your toilet shower, as I think I get too personal if I show people a photo of my own toilets.”
“Crazy woman. Okay then. And yes, I agree with you. I love my foreskin. We don’t need lube when jerking. These poor Americans, Jews and Muslims.”
“Chai na ka. Chan rak foreskin. What is foreskin in passathai?”

THE SINGER INSIDE THE AUTHOR

Last night a friend of mine and I visited a particular bar for the third time this month. We were drawn into this bar because there were two male Thai singers singing in a manner as if there was no tomorrow. My friend and I looked at each other and said: I have never heard a Thai singing so beautifully. We went inside, were personally welcomed by both owner and singer and soon we were sipping beers and acting as Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul (me as the latter). Both my friend and I agreed: stunning, while I did the Abdul-style (standind and crying).
One of the singers who handled his piano plus connected karaoke apparatus sang opera classics in such a way that even Pavaroti would have been pleased, while the other singer with the stage name Mr. Max sang contemporary and classic pop songs. He is a 1.95 tall Thai (probably the tallest Thai in Thailand) and he is gorgeous . I fell in love with him and his voice. He was an entertainer extraordinaire and blessed with a beautiful deep Tom Jones-style voice. My friend and I were blown away.

During the intermission he sat with us, and while I held his hand, I complimented him straight to heaven and back. Was it the beer inside my body that made his vocal cords sound so wonderful in my ears? No. Everybody in the audience agreed. This guy should be on TV.

Mr. Max told me he was a real-estate agent but because of the economic crisis he was put on unpaid leave. He liked singing, teamed up with the opera musician and started to draw in more crowds than any other bar in the area.

After 4 beers I tend to think I am Barbra Streisand and nearing the end of the evening Mr. Max asked me whether I had a song request. There are three songs that I hate being sung in karaoke bars: My Way, New York New York and This is my Life. Being a rebel and to piss off my friend who also hate the above mentioned songs, I told Max: I wanted to sing New York, New York with Mr. Max. I am not a singer, but a miracle happened. Max started off while I did the second course and grand finale of the song. And God helped me. God made me sound better than The Liza and Frank Sinatra combined I received a standing ovation that lasted minutes. My critical friend who always say: you’d better try not to sing, Pantau, lead the ovation. People handed tips to me, I collected 520 Baht.

I think I need a career change and Max told me to come back tonight to sing a few duets with him. Life is never boring for an author.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BARBRA STREISAND

It just turned 24 April in my part of the world. Today is a big day for someone on the other side of the world. The Barbra is going to celebrate her birthday together with her friend Shirley MacLaine who also has her birthday today. Barbra was born on 24 April 1942 in Brooklyn, New York as Barbara Joan Streisand, but she prefers to have her name spelled incorrectly. The old girl has inspired me since we were both young.
A world without The Barbra would make me all farklempt, it would be a total chorbn, a fahkakte kappore.
It’s not just her singing or her acting and directing that I love, but I love her for who she is. I also love her more than a bisel. I love her more than all people that I love combined.
I think she’s beautiful. Everyone who talks bad about her gets cursed by me in my best Yiddish: A broch tzu dir! A choleryeh ahf dir! A shandeh un a charpeh!
Since I live in Thailand I even grow my nails like The Barbra. A farshlepteh krenk but I wanted to pay tribute to her nails by creating a similar hand-look. Our fingers are equally long, very long and if there’s something about me that looks just a little like The Barbra, it’s my hands. Every time I see my hands I think: Barbra, our Barbra, The Barbra. I love you.

God created many voices, but She was most proud the day she created the voice of The Barbra. God listened and thought: wow, this is my best work of art so far and it will be difficult to top this one. It’s perfect.
God created the concept of beauty and then created The Barbra. And God had a look at it and listened to Her creation at saw and heard that it was good.

Dear Barbra, I know you love to read my web log, so I am saying to you: A gezunt ahf dein kopf, Barbra! Bei mir hust du gepoylt. You’re not a dummy and you made it and everybody is shmeichling you now. A leben ahf dir! Mazzletov.

I collected a few photos of the old girl. I love it that she doesn’t give ein bisel about her aging looks. Good for you! Gezunt!

Barbra not wearing a bra

Oy!

Oy Oy Oy!

This is my hand, shot on New Year's eve 2008/9 on Silom Soi 4, Bangkok. The nails are real. I dislike fake stuff.

NO COMPLAINTS PLEASE. THIS IS THAILAND

For a while now I have been following the very active bloggirl SHE in China. Almost every day she posts elaborate stories of her experiences in China. She speaks basic Mandarin and works in a big city and her posts often focus on the cultural differences and the way we Westerners respond to that. It doesn’t take long before you will encounter something in your daily live in Asia that makes your hair stand straight up (is this an expression?), and those stories always make a good read. I have done pretty well myself by stuffing a number of those things in my book Pantau in India. Those crazy Indians nah?
I now live in Thailand, and really, I could post new stuff everyday about those Siamese! But I haven’t. Why not? Because writing about the unusual habits of the people in our host country doesn’t make me feel good. It feels like complaining. Also, I think after over 9 years in Asia I got used to unwestern habits. I spit in public too.

We Westerners don’t mind complaining. I don’t often meet Westerners who need to go through the culture shock, but I currently spend time in a touristy area and the only thing I hear on the beach are white faces complaining about the crazy antics of the Thai. Four Dutch guys were sitting behind me on the beach. Complain complain complain complain.
I don’t let myself go very often but I couldn’t help myself. I turned round. “He! Als jullie het zo verschikkelijk vinden in Thailand, waarom hoepelen jullie niet terug naar Nederland!!”
Or in English: “If you hate it here so much, why don’t you go back to Holland!!”

I realised I have become almost Thai. Thais don’t complain. They rather keep quiet. Complaining isn’t a nice thing and is considered not done, not appropriate and someone who complains loses face. I hear Thais complain about one thing only and you hear it every day, even in winter.

“Ron!”

“Hot!”

Yes, it's bloody hot these days with temperatures close to 95F. I don’t even complain about that because it doesn’t really get hotter in Thailand than 95F and I have spent time in Delhi in April and temperatures were close to 120F (whilst 2000 Indians would just drop dead in the street every day). Mai pen rai!

Thais don’t complain, they don’t let off steam. They keep their own frustrations to themselves. Always. They smile when they feel even more frustrated. They also drink like elephants. Chang, Singha and Heineken do very well in Thailand. Put enough beer in a frustrated Thai and you get an explosive coctail of a small Asian body brewing big trouble inside.

Plenty of people kill those who frustrate them, women cut off the penises of their cheating husbands etc. Welcome to Thailand. I know a surgeon who specialises in putting back penises onto men, and I am not talking about frustrated Thai transsexuals with regrets.

If I had been more like a Westerner I would be able to post every day, I would be able to get all my little frustrations off my chest. I could complain about these bloody Thai smiles that mean nothing, because they may think the opposite of what a smile is supposed to be the result of. (I think this is a bad sentence). I could complain about the fact that I get a smile when I tell someone that I know they’re overcharging me.

“I am not a tourist. I know about prices.”

The first sentence I learned in India was: “Me tourist nee he hun!” or, “I am not a tourist!”

I am a little ticked off as I ate something bad in my favourite restaurant last night and got ill, vomited all over my bathroom floor and had to clean it up myself. I never get ill, I can lick an Asian street and drink water from the tap and don’t get sick. I can eat Thai food from the street! I don’t get sick. I don’t complain.

Okay, now I get it! Westerns girls in Asia need to complain in their blogs because if they would drink a beer, they would start shooting down Asians.

Anyway, I am glad I postponed my vow not to complain, which resulted in a new post and a Thai life saved. Now I need to check my photo archive for some appropriate photos of Thai food.

A nice serving of cockroaches perhaps? Hold the mayo!

Okay, perhaps chicken feet? Lovely snack when watching the tele

Oy, lovely snot still dripping from our snack.

Frogs perhaps? Yummie.

She's still smiling...

Crickets? No?

A sweet to finish it off. It will chip your teeth' enamel.

Okay, she's no food, but she certainly likes it, so to see.

THE PAINTER INSIDE THE WRITER

Some people who blog have full-time day jobs and still find time to post new stories every day, including photos, and they’re not even professional writers. How impressive!

I have the luxury of being able to spend 23 hours a day in bed working on my laptop (I use my bed for working such as writing as I prefer working horizontally). I have the luxury of just asking our staff to take care of everything and bring me some water or food, and yet I am too busy to post on Blogger on a regular basis.
I could tell you about the state of emergency and the heavy fighting in my home town of Bangkok but I don’t like to write about politics or violence.
Also, I am working my sheets off my bed carrying out research for the next novel I want to produce and I prefer to concentrate on that now. Spiritual stories about India then? Not right now.
So apart from research, what did I do this past week, locked up in my home to avoid getting killed? I made a painting. I haven’t yet mentioned that I do paint in order to avoid Repetitive Stress Injuries from working on a laptop all day long. If I paint, I move the pain from my wrists to my shoulders, as painting causes me pain too but in different places.
What do I paint? I am not a painter; I know children who can do better than I do. But I like to paint bamboo and fish and unusual erotic scenes inspired by Japanese Shunga art. Here are some of my recent paintings.

The above one is an Asian version of my favourite painting Sunday in the Park by George Seurat. If I copy, I do give it a twist.

Brace yourself for the next few paintings.

Or I keep it simple and just use a pencil.

Cheers!

Kinnaree and The Valley of the Gods

Last night I was working on a new chapter of my new novel. I thought it was time for one of my Thai characters to pay some attention to one of Thailand’s main symbols: kinnaree. Kinnaree is a half-human/half-bird-like figure believed to live in a mystical forest in the Himalayas. Wherever you go in Thailand, it won’t take long before you will encounter a statue of kinnaree; at temples, in restaurants, in parks etc. Even the motorway from Bangkok Airport into the city is lined on both sides by dozens of bonze statues of kinnaree.

I have always felt a fascination for this mystical creature, not only because of its appearance, but also because it is believed that the real live version of kinnaree lives in a Himalayan valley.

As you know I have lived in the Himalayas for 7 years but I have never come across a kinnaree (I thought). Much of Thai’s beliefs originate from Hinduism, and as I lived in India, I thought I had some knowledge of all the Hindu deities, however, I have never come across an image of kinnaree. I have spent time in every nook and cranny of the Indian Himalayas but never realised I have actually crossed the path of a real kinnaree. Last night whilst writing my new chapter it suddenly clicked in my mind. I HAVE been to that mystical valley of kinnaree!

These days more and more people find their way into the remote valleys of Ladakh and Zanskar. There are people who manage to travel to the valley of Spiti, some even manage to get into the valley of Sangla, the former kingdom of the King of Sangla. But only very, very few people have been able to make their way into (perhaps) the most beautiful but most inaccessible vallies of the Himamalayas, a place called Kinnaur. Hidden behind the majestic peaks of Mount Kinner Kailash on the border of Tibet, lies a green valley full of flowers. When the only motorable road is intact, it is possible to steer a four-wheel drive jeep over it an set your eyes on the mountain slopes of Kinnaur Valley, the land of Kinnaree.

In the summer of 2001, I visited this most beautiful valley. Eight years on I had almost forgotten all about it.
Kinnaur is also called The Land of Gods. The slopes are covered with thick wood, orchards, fields and picturesque hamlets. The much religious Shivlinga lies at the peak of Kinner Kailash mountain. The beautiful district was opened for the outsiders in 1989. The old Hindustan-Tibet road passes through the Kinnaur valley along the bank of river Sutlej and finally enters Tibet at Shipki La Pass. And it is not only the scenic beauty which appeals but also the life styles of the people, their culture, heritage, customs and traditions.
The Kinnaurees generally follow the Buddhist and Hindu belief that the Pandavas came and resided in the land whilst being in exile. In the ancient mythology the people of Kinnaur are known as Kinners; half men/half gods. Thousand-year-old monasteries still exist in the area. Both the Buddhists and Hindus live in perfect harmony symbolising the traditional brotherhood and friendship of the people of both faiths.
After my visit in 2001, I often wanted to go back there. I have made a few attempt but every time I steered my jeep towards the mountain pass, the local authorities would tell me that the road was blocked by landslides and that it would take months to have it restored. In 2001 I even had difficulty to get out of the valley as a 6 km long stretch of the only available jeep-track had disappeared into a ravine. If I would tell my mother what I managed to do to steer the jeep out of the valley, she would call me insane, but with the prospect of abandoning my jeep in the valley and walk back to civilization I decided to do the impossible and risk my life many times. Compare it to moving across a rope with a balancing pole in your hands; not by walking carefully, but by balancing a two ton jeep.

Kinnaree/Kinnara, a statue of the mystical creature that is half woman/half man/half human/half bird/half God. It is believed to live in the Himalayan valley of Kinnaur.

Me sitting on the bonnet of my jeep with Kinnaur Valley behind me.

Conquering bad roads into the remotest of remote valleys in the Himalaya.


Kinnaur Valley

The former kingdom of Sangla, the castle of the King on its summit.

Another image of the village.


I was witness of a rare (once in 12 years) religious ceremony during which three deities were shown to the villagers and redressed. The ritual included the sacrifice of a goat.
A hamlet in the mystical valley.

MONKEY BUSINESS

The Tibetan residential area on the summit of McLeod. My home is in the right upper corner.
View of the building I used to live in. The spiral staircase leading to my room.

Some macaques in the process of grooming on the rooftop of my home.

My jeep, the target of much monkey vandalism.

The type of long-tail langure macaque that I actually like.

A bunch of monkey todlers in an abused tree at arm-lenght from my balcony.

A beautiful male snow monkey outside my room.

The view from my balcony.

From the first day I lived in Dharamsala I wasn’t only surrounded by monks, but also by monkeys. There were two types of monkeys in upper-Dharamsala, better named as McLeodganj, the hometown of the Dalai Lama. Looking at the homes in McLeod I noticed that every room and door was protected by metal bars. Why? Did I have to fear thieves of the human variety who were interested in stealing my Dalai Lama books and Buddha statues? No! The metal mesh protecting windows and doors were all about keeping out monkeys. There were two varieties. The majority of monkeys were rhesus macaques. They were rude, obnoxious, often violent little thieves with a high IQ and many creative ways of stealing food or other items from homes. The other type of monkeys were very kind, shy, long-tailed langure macaques. They would just sit in tree tops and shy away from people most of the time. Those were the ones I actually adored.
I have had many personal encounters with the first variety; the obnoxious rascals.

Soon after I moved to McLeod in 2000, I decided to buy a soft top Suzuki jeep that I was able to park close to my home. The next day I noticed that the soft-top was gone and that an entire gang of monkeys had taken up residence in my jeep. After cleaning out all the monkey poo I had the jeep remodeled for 100.000 rupees in Delhi with a 5 mm thick bullet proof hard-top. The monkeys were no longer able to get into the car, but they would still enjoy jumping from tree branches onto the roof or bonnet. They would defecate onto the jeep, use their poo to write their names onto the windows, rip off the windshield-wipers and mirrors, nibble away or even tear out large pieces of the rubber that keeps the windows in the door frames, rip off the mud flaps and even let out air from the tires. My white jeep always looked like a toilet on wheels. Driving the thing pass the Dalai Lama temple always elicited a feeling of terrible embarrassment. My only consolation was that even the cars of the Dalai’s motorcade of the Tibetan Government in Exile got defecated on.

I tried many ways to protect my jeep from monkey business. I would cover it completely with dried tree branches with inch-long thorns, which was helpful to some extend. After some time the monkeys would just pull the branches off the jeep and wave them at me.
I invested 800 rupees in a so called monkey-resistant thick plastic car cover with unbreakable nylon straps. I used it only once. It took me 10 minutes to cover the car up and thought it would work well. Not! Within one minute the monkeys had ripped the cover in pieces and, looking at me with big smiles on their faces, waved the individual plastic parts above their heads. “Look Pantau, we just fucked up your 800-rupee monkey-proof jeep cover!”
Whatever I did to protect the jeep from monkeys, nothing worked. The only thing I could do was practicing Patience and Acceptance according to the Buddhist teachings of the Dalai Lama.
My third and last home in McLeod that I lived in for four years was on the third floor of an apartment building about 100 metres above the bazaar. It was a very small and simple room in a large building with a small balcony, a window and a door. The door could be closed with a metal bar and secured with a padlock. I would padlock the door with a 200 rupee 10-digit Sanyo digital lock. Now, it would take a human two years to figure out the right combination to open the padlock, however, it took my monkeys only a few weeks to figure out the 5 numbers that needed to be pressed in order to open the lock. You better believe that I am not exaggerating here. Monkeys just know how to open digital padlocks.
The monkeys would sit in a tree across from my door observing me pressing the 5 digits every time I would unlock, and to my surprise, after some time I came home to notice that the lock was gone and the door open. About twenty monkeys were throwing a party inside my room. My television was smashed to the ground, my foam mattress ripped apart and shat on. There were feces on practically every inch of the white washed walls and every can and bag in my kitchenette was opened for inspection. A bag of milk powder was used to make an impressive piece of art by mixing the powder with monkey shit. The stinky mix made a very creamy and slippery wall and floor paint. My bookshelves with Buddhist works of the Dalai Lama were remodeled and the books of His Holiness had been ripped apart and shat on.
The moment they saw my shocked face in the door opening, they tried to flee my room, but as I was standing in the door opening I was blocking their way. My mistake. Big mistake! I should have stepped away from the door to let the 20 or so monkeys escape. The alpha male decided to burry his canine teeth about an inch-deep into my right leg which almost made me tumble over the railing of my balcony and fall twenty metres down onto the roof of the small monastery below my building.
After 7 years, I was really fed up with the monkeys, especially with their shit and piss that they would throw at me. They would sometimes just piss me off by peeing against my windows or onto my head from the balcony above me. They would fling their poo at me, smear their feces onto the railing of my spiral staircase, resulting in many poo-on-hand-situations. They would just sit on my balcony with their legs spread wide and let their urine flow all over the place. Unfortunately, the balcony slanted towards my front door.
I miss the monks of McLeod but if there’s one thing I don’t miss about McLeod, it is the monkeys.