It’s two-twenty on a Tuesday
afternoon and we’re on a bus from Chiang Saen to Chiang Rai, Thailand. Big, fat drops of rain are exploding into the
windshield, and every two or three minutes the driver hits the switch to turn
on the wiper (only one side works, but it does a nice job.) The bus is shiny but worn. Overhead is bright chrome metal that someone
has taken pains to keep clean, and there are sturdy metal fans that swing
around and blow air over the passengers which is especially nice when we stop
to pick someone up.
I don’t know how to begin guessing
the weight of this thing, but it must be close to one million pounds. There don’t appear to be any shock
absorbers—or springs, for that matter.
The floor is made of thick planks of teak wood, and though it’s not
oiled, it still has the look of frequent, regular cleanings. Someone cares for this bus, and that, I
think, makes all the difference.
The driver looks frequently into
the rear-view mirror, as well as the mirror mounted on the windshield to see
how his passengers are doing—what’s going on around him His conductor is smiling in a blue,
short-sleeved shirt. She has her hair
pulled back and has tied it with a white, lace bow. Every now and then she gets up to collect a
fare, then takes a new seat, chatting with the different passengers. We’re
filling up, but so far there’s enough room.
I feel safe. We have yet to climb over forty miles and
hour. It’s not far to Chiang Rai—maybe
fifty miles total—and could end up taking two hours. But in this bus, on this day, at this speed,
and surrounded by these people, I think we’ll make it. At some level, I think each and every soul on
this bus knows we will make it, feels our invincibility.
The two kids in front of me look like
dare-devils, with short, spiky hair. The
one on the left has arched eyebrows and tattoos covering his right arm and
hand. His buddy has his arm out the
window; both have the air of confidence and carelessness one can only have in
their mid-to-late teens, happy and torn, anxious and satisfied. Their great
asset is a force of life running at its peak, but logic tells us even this is
not enough; no one is invincible. I look
around and consider the possibilities:
Cancer lying in wait in the fellow across the aisle from me, who looks
to be dozing against the window glass. After his shift behind the wheel, our
driver steps out into the path of a truck filled with gravel, on its last run of the day to drop a load
for road repairs. Pedestrians wail and
wonder why. The two boys in front of me
find their end racing back roads on hopped-up motor scooters. Yet none of these
things have a chance as long as we are rolling along in this steel brick cocoon. This wheeled, earth bound chariot.
Note-while
writing that last paragraph we pulled to a stop. I thought we were picking up a passenger, and
continued with my writing. Then Rebecca
tapped my leg, and I looked up to see three armed police standing in the bus
aisle, checking ID cards. I pulled out our passports, but they ignored me. However, they completed a full shakedown of
the two boys in front of me, making them stand so they could be fully patted
down, asking questions, going carefully through their wallets. All the officers wore dust masks, so we could
only see their eyes. Each carried a gun
belt and side arm. Then, just like that,
it was over. They stepped down to their
roadside station, and we’re rolling along again. Things are just as they were,
but somehow not. The smiling conductor
has pulled down the jump seat, and isn’t chatting with passengers; somehow the
bus seems fuller, almost crowded, and my skin feels sticky and greasy in the
wet, hot air. The bite of diesel fumes seeps through the floor boards.
In a way, this little episode
serves as a metaphor for recent political events, in which the military, under
General Prayuth, have decreed martial law, effectively executing a government
coup d’etat, one of twelve since
nineteen thirty-eight. Though
from where I’m sitting, you wouldn’t know it.
My buddy Mike Twohey sent me a link to an article from the AP entitled, From Beaches to Bangkok, Tourists ask 'What
coup?’
http://news.yahoo.com/beaches-bangkok-tourists-ask-coup-111216839--finance.html
The story surrounds various westerners who are here on
holiday, and remain blissfully ignorant to the goings-on of what seems a small
handful of active, angry politicos.
Indeed, the Thais we’ve spoken with have expressed a cavalier attitude
over the whole thing, one—a women who ran a guesthouse we were staying in--
going so far as to exclaim, “They’re just bored. When they have nothing to do, they change
things up. It makes no difference!” Yet the article suggested a very real
difference, especially in terms of tourism, which makes up seven percent of the
country’s economy. People are choosing
to go elsewhere, affected, it would seem, by the stigma around the term coup d’etat, as well as various warning
put out by the state departments of likely source governments, including the
US.
I made the case to Rebecca of how
this whole thing would seem a game of perception, in which we humans
predictably respond in a fearful, impulsive manner, rather than taking the road
of logic and reason.
“I think in some ways the actions
of the Generals makes sense. The
on-going protests were going nowhere, and people were dying.” She considered my reasoning for about a
nanosecond before concluding, “There’s never an excuse for a violation of human
rights. Especially the right to express
oneself. Television and radio stations
were shut down. Academics, journalists
and former government and anti-government players were (are) detained. Facebook was briefly shutdown.” The last bit seemed to affect her in an almost
visceral way, like the nerve pinch/death grip hold Spock so adeptly applied to
various ne’er do wells.
I made a half-hearted effort to
support my argument, under the perceived truth of how it was unfolding around me.
But it lacked conviction and vigor.
The truth is, shakedowns change things.
Even though the kids in front of me were the only ones feeling the sting
and humiliation of the cops’ attention (I since learned the reason for the
shakedown was a random search for illicit drugs) we all felt something of a
cloud descend over our happy world. And
with enough incidence of clouds, we risk our want of clarity, potentially
rendering the sun a wistful, distant memory.
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