I look forward to Monday mornings when the maids, Lek and Saega, arrive to clean my apartment. When I first moved here, I’d make myself scarce while they did their work so as not to be underfoot. Later I began hanging around and helping out. My current duties include gathering up the used towels and sheets and leaving them in a small pile outside the door. Then after the maids bring in the new linen, I wrestle the pillows into their cases while they unfold the pressed sheets and smooth them over the bed.

At this point I’m in the way, so I lie down on the fresh sheets and watch them sweep the floor, clean the kitchen countertop, and wipe the tops of the tables. At some point Saega gives me a damp cloth to run across the top of the headboard (hard work, to be sure, but someone has to do it).

The girls are usually in good spirits, especially considering it’s the start of their work week. (I was never like this.) To help maintain morale, I turn on the air conditioner and keep two containers of orange juice in the refrigerator. For entertainment, I try to repeat, in my mangled Thai, bits of their conversations (which is always good for a laugh out of Saega)

I am one of their favorite residents.

The covid-19 trouble initially dampened the mood. The first week, after the government requested everyone to stay at home, when things looked especially grim, the girls wanted me to just stay on the sofa and not handle anything they would be touching. (I finally went out on the balcony.) But after a few weeks passed and I did not fall deathly ill, I was allowed to reassume my responsibilities. In deference to the virus, the three of us wear masks and rigorously wash our hands when the work is finished. (Ironically, the pair are my only social contacts these days, meaning they are far more likely to infect me than the other way around.)

A word about using a mask. My masseuse friend Pam had given me a miniature collection for my birthday, but it turns out I did not know how to properly wear them. When the maids first saw me with one strapped to my face, Lek pointed out I had it on upside down (how could she tell?) and that it should cover my nostrils (well duh). Saega showed me how to pinch it around the bridge of my nose to hold it in place. I felt more than a little stupid, but now is a good time to learn.

Before the virus descended upon Bangkok, my friend Joy could be found camped out opposite the 7—Eleven a block beyond Nana Plaza on Soi 4. I often ran into her when I decided to take the long way home after an evening at my bar. A businesslike woman who knew my drinking habits, she would often ask how much wine I had consumed. If I was in the middle of one of my exercise fetishes, she’d compliment me on my lack of a paunch. Then I’d get a brief update on how things were going on the Soi before being sent on my way.

I know nothing about Joy’s background. The couple of times I asked only produced vague answers about how she’d had troubles just like everyone else. Always kept a certain distance. And when I on occasion handed her a one thousand baht note ($30), she found my generosity puzzling since she had not done anything to earn it.

It was therefore a real surprise when one afternoon earlier this month I received the following message from the woman:

“Can I borrow money first? Can I pay the room fee tomorrow? 2500
baht. I am not (have) a customer. If I have, I will repay you. Sorry for
the disturbance but I really can’t find it.”

Another victim of the economic hardship caused by the virus. I grabbed my bank card, donned a mask, and went out to the ATM to send her some money. I provided four times what she was asking; only covering the rent would still leave her struggling. Of course this was more help than she was expecting:

“Why do you transfer to me? Ten thousand baht. So much. Thank you
very much. If you have any problems, send me a message or call
anytime. I click to pay for (t)his room. The rest I will pay for another
month. Thank you very much.”

And a couple days later…

“You’re fine. I paid for the room yesterday. I thank you very much for
helping me take care of myself.”

Knowing that Joy still visits Soi 4 on occasion, I’ve told her I’ll see her there sometime. While this was really just an offhand remark, it wouldn’t hurt to give her a heads up the next time I’m down in her area. It sounds like she’s now keeping an eye out for me. Perhaps I’ll be getting to know her a little better.

After giving Bia three thousand baht (@$90) last month, the final night that the Beer Garden bar was open, I didn’t give any more thought about her situation. Like everyone else here in Bangkok, I was busy stocking up on food and worrying about how to survive the covid-19 siege. Nor do Bia and I stay in touch with messages or phone calls.

That is not to say I’d forgotten her! All I had to do was glance over at my dining table, where the classy wine glasses she gave me for Christmas still stood. (It seemed wrong to hide them away in the cupboard.) This was a woman who would not be dropping off my radar.

I eventually got back to her in early April, after I’d paid the support for the two barmaids along with a couple of other friends. I sent her a short message asking how she was doing while adding I’d be happy to give her more money. Although knowing nothing of her life outside of the bar, with the local economy ravaged there was a chance she might be hurting.

And indeed, that was the case:

“Hello, how are you? I haven’t been working for a long time. I don’t
have money. It’s difficult. I don’t know when the Beer Garden will
open. Can you help me a little? I don’t know what to do.”

Fortunately I knew what to do: I had her provide me her bank account information, then went to an ATM and sent her enough to last the rest of the month. She texted me a pleasant thank you.

A week later I decided to contact her again as a kind of follow-up. This was unusual for me; my modus operandi is to provide the funds, then back off. No entanglements. But the virus, as I was coming to realize, was forcing people to face a plethora of concerns. Bia’s response was a good example of this — and of why I should be staying in touch:

“Hello, I’m very stressed about when the store will open, how long it will
take. If for a long time I would have to go back to my home in Ubon.”

In other words, she and her kids would be uprooted. After giving this some thought, I told her I’d provide more help next month to stave off the move.

“Thank you. You very good to me. Miss you. Take Care.”

I told her I missed her too.

A few days before I once again became another year older and wiser, one of the ladies I’ve been supporting (Pam) texted me. She wanted to know if she could stop by then and drop off a gift of food and masks. Items she thought I’d appreciate in my present hunkered down state.

Pam’s request concerned me. I have been encouraging my special friends to stay put while the virus is loose. Do not go out unless it is absolutely necessary. Certainly not the half hour or more it would take to come to my place.

But this occasion was different. The birthday presents were Pam’s way of expressing her gratitude, something that was important to her. So I gave the green light. At her suggestion, the delivery was made just outside the entrance to my apartment building. She handed over the somewhat heavy bag, wished me well, then left.

Turns out the food, masks (and card, of course) were not the only things Pam had in mind. There also was a nice watch she went to the trouble of picking out. I would have liked to have told her she didn’t need to go to such lengths; the two McDonald’s cheeseburgers would suit me just fine. But she wanted to do bring something more than mere take out.

Bless her heart.

“To boldly go where no man has gone before…unless there’s a virus loose.”

I have always been a fan of this show’s original series. Though it dates me, I was glued to the TV when the first episode aired way back in September of 1966. Its theme of exploring “the final frontier” appealed to my nascent sense of adventure. And though I remained regrettably earthbound in the decades that followed, I nevertheless pursued my own brand of brave explorations, winding up enjoying my golden years in a foreign country instead of some Sun Belt retirement community in the U.S.

Thank you, Captain Kirk!

In the first season of Star Trek, there was an episode called The Return of the Archons. In this the Enterprise comes across a planet (Beta III in the C-111 system — I had to look this up) where people have been absorbed into “the body”, where independent thinking is not tolerated. Much like Fox News, except in this case the culprit was a centuries old computer. When it had to take itself offline for an extended period, presumably to install new updates, all hell would break loose. Freed from its restraints, women were assaulted, storefronts broken into, and hats wildly tossed into the air with everyone shrieking, “Festival! Festival!”.

Thailand’s version of this is called the Songkran Festival and involves lots and lots of water. Each year in mid April my street degenerates into three days’ worth of squirt gun battles with nonstop yelling. Going out risks a drenching, so I stay indoors for the duration, keeping a low profile — much like those few Beta III denizens who avoided getting absorbed.

Although there’s no omnipotent computer to bring the Songkran madness to a halt, covid-19 has managed something even better. In order to try and lessen its spread, this year’s festivities have been cancelled. Since this is an occasion when families traditionally get together, it is hoped that most people will instead remain home and not pass on any infection. (Though the horse may already be out of the barn.)

As for me, once again I’ll be confined to my apartment, but avoiding a virus instead of dueling squirt guns.

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Songkran Siege

After giving the soon-to-be-unemployed barmaids extra money a couple weeks ago to tide them over, I realized that would not be enough. With the inroads the virus was making, Thailand was going to be shut down for at least another month — or more. The women would be hurting, big time.

Fortunately, I knew what to do. In Thailand, one can transfer money to other people’s bank accounts using an ATM — a feature I’ve come to rely on as my philanthropy has grown. Using this, I could continue to provide assistance and on short notice. All that was needed was the girls’ banking information, which they wrote down for me.

I made my April Support Payments last week, a day before the please-stay-at-home government request kicked in. I used my favorite ATM in front of the Omni Tower, one that has never eaten my card. In addition to the barmaids, I put money into the accounts of two other deserving Thai women. (One of them happens to be a masseuse, but not the pushy kind.) The operation required some serious concentration, consulting my notes, typing in account numbers and amounts, then double checking to be sure I wasn’t accidentally paying someone twice. I felt like a clerk working at the local Unemployment Office. But this was far safer than going out and hand delivering cash to four different people, praying I would not pick up the virus along the way.

Everyone sent me a thank you email or text afterwards for my generosity, two of them adding what a fine person they think I am. Well, maybe. It’s actually more a sense of responsibility coming from my good fortune a few years back. Being aware of when I can make a difference.