Making Friends

Being in the ethnic minority can be a refreshing and humbling experience for a pair of Caucasian Americans. It is very possible to go a full day (perhaps weeks) in the town of Trang, Thailand without seeing a single white-skinned being. Likewise, you will nary hear an English word other than the adorable shrieks of 'hello!' from toddlers and school children as you go zooming by on a motorbike. Moving to a small town in another country, we have elected to be foreigners in a very distinct way.

However, having a baby very much de-claws us in our capacity as ambassadors of the first world. With an infant strapped to our chest, people are quickly made aware that we are not here to swill beer and make ugly American mischief. The Thais have a particular place in their hearts for foreign youngsters, and even the steeliest of gazes melts when our bright eyed little boy reveals his cherubic face. We are quickly identified then as honest travelers and our reception is warm and inviting. With Isaiah's one foot in the door, we further pry it open with the few Thai phrases we can manage. Before long, we are engulfed in a crowd of beautiful dark skin and eager eyes, straining to catch a glimpse or touch the foot of our little ice-breaker. If Gaibi and I separate in the market, I can easily find them again by looking for the mass of people clumped into one area, all making high pitched noises and shuffling about, trying to get a touch of that squishy pale infant. Equally, Isaiah provides an in-road for conversation with even the most timid. The common, almost standard questions that always come up are,


"Boy or girl?" (this is ALWAYS first. The majority of people guess that he is a girl.)


"How much does he weigh?"


This quickly segues into a little game of peek-a-boo, which segues into a little hand-gesture that essentially means, 'give him to me'. Usually we oblige, albeit under tight scrutiny, while Isaiah gets a tour of the market, restaurant, bank, museum or whatever the establisment of the time may be. By the time we get him back he has charmed the whole of the establishment, making rather certain that we will be welcomed back any time. He often returns with a chewing souvenir of some sort- a straw or plastic spoon or other such prize. In most restaurants the waitresses are happy to provide an impromptu babysitting service, free of charge while we dine. This is a tremendous and unexpected boon for two weary parents such as ourselves.


A little cafe in the center of town we have a special friend named 'Sakda' who speaks English quite well and always give Isaiah the royal treatment. One day, we found ourselves in a very unexpected cirumstance.

"My sister is in the hospital," Sakda tells us, "She has to get (gestures a large, spherical formation roughly the size of a cantaloupe) taken out of (cuts across his abdomen with his fingers). 7 o'clock tonight, (it is now 4)."

Meanwhile, Gaibi and I are firing off guesses in an attempt to better understand the situation,

"Tumor?"

"Gall stone?"

"Is she getting an organ removed?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Sakda replies, "today I go see her in the hospital."

"That's nice of you," we reply unpatronizingly.

"You come with me?" he casually asks.

"..."

"I go today, five o'clock, you come with me!"

Surely he notices that we are reeling from a sort of cultural left-hook. Our jaws gyrate slightly, seraching for a response or at the very least a stalling strategy while we gather our senses.

"Sure, its ok!" he reassures us.

Our eyes remain focused, determined.

"Well, I don't know...what are we doing today, honey?" I pass the buck to Gaibi.

"I'm not suuure..." she drops it.

Somehow, from the back of our minds a notion creeps in, suggesting that perhaps we should consider going with this guy to the hospital to meet his sister two hours before her as-yet unspecified major surgical extraction procedure. After all, we came to Thailand to witness authentic Thai culture and what could be less tourism-fabricated than a trip to the hospital?

Wait a minute, what the hell are we-


The next thing we know we are on the motorbike, due for the hospital with Sakda zooming along beside us. While stopped at a red light, he informs us that his family has arranged a VIP room for his sister in the hospital. "700 per night," he tells us with a certain twinkle in his eye. (About $28 per day for those of you keeping score.)


We arrive at the hospital and park our motorbike amongst the others clustered along the curb outside the entrance. Inside it is tidy but not extravagant. Due to limited groundspace, the building goes more upward than outward. Ascending the stairway, I notice that the pharmacy on the ground floor has been built to resemble a small hut, perhaps reminiscent of the simple buildings you see in the countryside. Each floor looks out onto the ground floor/lobby/pharmacy area. On the 4th floor where Sakda's sister is located, an ornate Buddha image sits adorned with offerings of flowers, incense and a small plate of fresh food and water.


Expecting to enter the room and find ourselves awkwardly situated around the bed with our friend, enduring long silences, fairly frozen by our own ignorance of how to act appropriately in such a situation, we are pleasantly surprised by a very different scene: the room is packed with family. Four ladies from three generations are seated on a grass mat at the bedside. Throughout the room men of all ages are seated and standing, some eating fruit, others on their phones, the rest talking casually. In walk three foreigners, (us,) and Sakda. To put it lightly, they notice.
However, they are quick to welcome us with no shortage of generosity and soon our apprehensions have fully dissolved. An elderly woman promptly hops off the couch and insists that we take her place. Arguing, we find, will not assuage her. A large bag of fruit is quickly brought before us and we are more expected than invited to partake heartily. We soon find out that Sakda is the youngest of eight. His sister (aka, the patient) is the eldest and says very little but continuously twinkles at us through her bright, dark eyes. (yes, i mean bright, dark eyes) Far from ruffled by a few strangers prancing in a few hours before her surgery, she apologizes for her appearance and thanks us generously for coming. Shortly Isaiah is in the hands of the family and we are answering all of the rudimentary questions. Shortly thereafter, another elderly woman enters the room (putting the headcount up to around 14 in a regular-sized hospital room). "This is my other mom," Sakda informs us. I vaguely remember hearing in some cases, additional wives are taken into the family to fulfill such family duties as childbearing and householding when for some reason one is not sufficient. "Its ok," Sakda reassures us, "both my moms love eachother. Everybody loves eachother."

Slowly, people begin to trickle out of the room to the balcony (VIP rooms have balconies) where they are seated on another grass mat, having dinner.
The few remaining in the room disappear rapidly when they sense that Gaibi is about to nurse Isaiah. Despite Gaibi's best efforts to stay decent, hiding the whole operation under a red shawl, everyone left either shifts to the opposite side of the bed or exits to the balcony. Meanwhile nurses begin to appear, taking pre-surgical measurements and administering various medicines and swabs. Surgery is in 45 minutes and we suggest to Sakda that maybe we had better go. After a very warm send-off from the entire family, his sister again thanks us abundantly for our visit and all but demands that we promise to return (with the baby) in the coming week during her recovery period. We leave still completely unaware of exactly what is about to take place and really it is quite beside the point. Unexpectedly, we walk out of the hospital feeling quite glad that we agreed to come.

Later we are eating at a restaurant with Sakda and we remark to him how warm and loving it felt in the hospital room, surrounded by family sitting comfortably in the presence of their ailing sister. "Yes, whenever someone in my family becomes sick or has problem, my whole family will come to be with them," he replies with that unshakable smile of his. "That's my kind of health-care coverage," I think to myself.

We have scarcely seen Sakda since then, but the one time he did he told us that his sister was so happy to have met us and hopes that soon we will be able to visit her at her house in a neighboring province. Its nice to have friends.