The Constant Adventure of Bangkok Public Transportation

      I’ve been driving since I was 12 or so.  How, might you ask, did I start so young? As an only child of protective/terrified parents they did what made the most sense... they gave me ample practice time behind the wheel before releasing me into the world of driving permits and unsupervised vehicle operation. My mother would allow me to drive her on errand runs, weekly jaunts into N.Ga, and wherever else she thought would offer me good driving practice. At the time I thought it was SO RAD and, in retrospect, it was an extraordinarily wise way for her to be there for the inevitable new driver screw-ups. I credit her with a (nearly) flawless driving record and my confidence behind the wheel. Living rurally throughout high school drive times were long, roads were treacherous, and too many of my classmates live’s were abbreviated because they made newbie errors on unforgiving roads. Mom clearly knew best.
      All this being said, I’ve spent the last 7ish year relying solely on myself for transport. I’ve always preferred to be ‘the driver’ with my group of friends and I genuinely enjoy driving. I’ve embarked on road-trips for no reason and, if particularly upset/bored/stressed, will often jump in the car for a spin around the neighborhood with the windows down and music blaring. 
      I haven’t driven for 6 months and it is dually bizarre and empowering. I’ve relied on public transportation, taxis, rides from friends and my own two feet to get around. It is a testament to the Thai Public Transport system that I have done all this cheaply, safely, and efficiently. Bangkok traffic is gnarly. 
      I use the SkyTrain to zip across town on evenings and weekends, high above the kilometer long traffic jams on Sukhimvit and Silom. The trains are frequent, every 5 mins or so, and may or may not be packed sardine style.The people-jammed cars are always eerily quiet unless there are a group of American’s on board... in which case their entire, boisterous conversation rings throughout the length of the train. A highlight of the BTS are the omnipresent BTS police, men in skintight uniforms wielding whistles and stern looks for anyone who crosses the yellow line or dives through the closing doors. Each one has their own separate whistling style. Some are whistle-happy, unleashing a shrill tone at every conceivable opportunity. Others reserve their chides for true offenders. One particularly conversational policeman at Sanam Pao has a jovial greeting for each farang who walks off the train. 
      My commute to work is not on the SkyTrain line but I am fortunate that the municipal bus system is convenient and cheap. I hop on a bus (#44 or #67) that may or may not be air-conditioned and, occasionally, has bus pets... namely squirrels or mice that reside in a cage bolted to the gear box and loved-on by the driver. Sound bizarre? It is SO very Bangkok. I love it. I’ve reached a level of fuzzy familiarity with many of the bus attendants and drivers. Because I get off at one of the largest public hospitals (right next to my university) and am usually dressed in professional wear, they assume I am a physician or physician in training. They address me as ‘Doctor’, a title which I have tirelessly tried to lose without much success. The bus never fails to be interesting. Fellow riders can be entertaining, my own actions embarrassingly clumsy, or the sights from the window particularly engaging... it all depends on the day.
      As much as I would like to say I have sworn off motorcycle taxis after the harrowing accident I witnessed, I haven’t. Car taxis are great for cross-city, late-night commutes but nothing beats the back of a motorcycle when I need to get somewhere quickly. When I say traffic here is terrible, I am doing it great favors. Between the hours of 7am-10am and 3:30pm-6:30pm many roads are hopelessly gridlocked. Motorcycle taxi men deftly weave in and out of traffic and can get me places in 5-10 minutes that it would take an hour or more otherwise. They are cheap, thrilling and offer a nice, breezy retreat from pounding the pavement. The taxi men are usually very kind and surprisingly careful. While weaving through traffic via motorcycle would be disastrous Stateside (can you imagine how pissed off Atlanta drivers would be if someone dared to beat them to their exit?), Bangkok drivers are hyper aware of their surroundings and are accustomed to looking for brazen pedestrians and zippy motorcycles. Its just part of the normal traffic scene here. All this praise was a lame attempt to justify my use of them to my mother. Maybe it worked? Doubtful. 
Finding transport and navigating the city is a daily adventure that can be dually exciting and frustrating. I look forward to having my car again but, for now, view my daily commutes and outings as constant adventures. Life is never boring here. 

Aftermath of a Tragedy

As traumatizing my experience with the motorcycle accident was, I have walked away with valuable insight and information.... most of which I am still trying to appreciate:

1.  There is no ‘Good Samaritan’ Law in Thailand and nothing close to an equivalency. Consequently, the police officer who stopped me was likely trying to protect my interests. Had I interfered, I could have been held liable for personal and property damages that the woman had sustained. I might have had to pay her hospital bill and her family could have sued me if she had died. In fact, I would have likely been arrested for interfering at the scene of an accident. In practical terms, without pondering too deeply on seeing a woman die in the street, all of this sounds rational and I can convince myself to conjure up feelings of relief that I didn’t get myself entangled in a situation that was a proverbial can-of-worms.

      HOWEVER, I think it is utterly absurd that this is the reality of Thailand’s legal system. Punished for helping someone? Really?! I mean, I get the premise... no one wants an unqualified joe-schmoo pounding out chest compressions on a spinal cord victim. But, I think most people who are first-aid trained approach a situation and try to find the least invasive manner to give aid. I knew better than to move this woman but I also knew that rescue breathing would prolong her time of viability. I wasn’t going to try to perform open heart surgery, I just wanted to provide the most basic of aid before qualified paramedics arrived on the scene. And, as I mentioned in the previous post, I felt most compelled to offer her comfort. I think that is the only humane and moral thing to do. If acting out of compassion and humanity is a crime, then I am okay with being a criminal.

2.  I discovered that in a grave situation I don’t cower in fear. That is surprisingly empowering feeling. I lead an insulated, blessed, and overwhelmingly fortunate life. I don’t encounter life-or-death situations with any sort of frequency. Knowing that when I am in the midst of one I maintain some semblance of composure and morality is a comforting feeling. I didn’t act perfectly, in hindsight I wish I had pressed the police officer more to allow me to help her, but I certainly didn’t just walk away. Lots of people around me did.

   Along the same line, I confirmed that while my own blood (a symbol of my morality) can leave me faint and quivering in fear, the sight of someone else’s, even a great deal of it, doesn’t phase me. This sounds trivial, but those of you close to me know that I get a pretty iffy with mild self-injury (comically so, in fact). I have successfully observed child-birth, surgery, and other peoples moderate injuries without much trouble but I had never before dealt with an traumatic emergency of this caliber. Needless to say, I might have dry-heaved after the fact but in the moment I barely noticed to its presence.

3. Thais are far more casual about death than Westerners. This might sound critical but it is not, it is simply a fact. I was shocked, angered, and horrified when dealing with this first hand but in hindsight I realize that my condemnation of their actions arose from a place of prejudice. I viewed their reaction through my Western relationship with death.

    I don’t have a comfortable relationship with death. Just saying or thinking the word gives me the momentary heeblies and my mind wanders to places I hate it being. I can’t speak for everyone, mostly because in the States death contemplation is not typical conversation material, but I would wager that most Westerners have similar feelings. That being said, that is simply not how it is here. Death simply doesn’t carry the same mental or emotional weight. People talk gingerly about someone dying , about their own death, and about their previous deaths. Buddhism is the root of this and I don’t know enough about the teachings of it to comment much further.

4. My morning jaunts on motorcycle taxis are over. I used to look forward to my daily ride as it often served as a sort of pick-me-up. I would gingerly hop on the back of a motorcycle (or scooter), helmet-less, and giggle as the driver navigated through the morning traffic. I prided myself in my transformation from awkward, terrified and white knuckling tourist to glamourous and relaxed morning commuter.

   Well, I have re-joined the ranks of the terrified. I now pound the pavement on the 1.6 km walk to the BTS station or hop a bus to the university. Running late? I smile and hail a taxi with a steel cage and seatbelts, happily paying the extra 10 baht above the motorcycle fare (about 35 cents). In a city where traffic laws are long-forgotten-suggestions and the only observed rule is that the biggest vehicle wins (a law of physics, really) I am simply not going to risk being at the bottom of the proverbial food chain. This decision might inconvenience me but so would a traumatic head injury.

    And, for the record, I reveled in driving my own motorcycle in the states but, frankly, this is a totally different world. I’ll always defend my appreciation and use of motorcycles while stateside, but I just can’t justify risking my life here. Accidents happen far too frequently, there is no protective gear and I am utterly out of control as a passenger with drivers who have no qualifications. I’ll save my motorcycle kicks for when I can wrap myself in kevlar and make my own mistakes.

5.  And, finally, this incident was the ultimate test of my ‘Optimism or Flounder’ assertion. I gave myself a few days to decompress and forgave myself for my indignant and angry feelings. Now, I am over it. I’ve been enjoying my morning walks even more now just knowing that I am fortunate enough to be alive and experiencing them.

Death on the Street

** Before you start reading this post, I have a necessary disclaimer: The story that follows is horrific. Don’t read unless you are comfortable with the possibility of being disturbed, saddened, revolted, and angered. This is no rainbows and roses post. The title is no exaggeration.***

I was walking home from the BTS station when I saw something amiss in my peripheral vision. A taxi appeared to have clipped the tail end of a motorbike, the motorcycle dipped to the right, over-corrected and plunged to the left. The helmet-less rider was thrown from the seat and was immediately struck by an oncoming vehicle, the body was tossed back towards the point of origin. The landing was obstructed by passing vehicle but when it passed a limp, broken body was splayed in the middle of the street. Long black hair radiated from her head and two sparkly shoes laid haphazardly near her. Traffic finally came to a halt, both on the sidewalk and the road. People just stared. I waited for someone to move, certain that in a city filled with the perpetually smiling, helpful, selfless Thais that a crowd would surge to this woman’s aid. A car made the first move, driving around the body and bike. Another followed. No one on the sidewalk moved. It was as though someone had hit a ‘pause’ button on life.

I dropped my bag and walked into the street, ignoring the passing cars who were rubber-necking enough not to be a threat. My mind was rapidly recalling everything I had learned in the numerous first-aid, life-guarding, and hospital volunteer training courses I have taken. In the three steps it took to reach her I made a mental list. I would first check her vitals, being careful not to move her. I would then access where she was bleeding and apply pressure to the areas of most severe injury. If necessary, I would attempt to sweep out her airway and give rescue breathing. I was wearing an over-shirt that I could use to apply pressure and started to unbutton it as I took the last step.

I bent down, bracing for what I might see when I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. It pulled me back with significant force. I looked up to see a man in uniform. He was a police officer of some sort, panting from having run to the scene. He spoke in rapid thai that I couldn’t comprehend. I made a frantic pantomime motion of checking my pulse, trying to indicate that she needed help, hoping that he would step in. I glanced down, noticing a thin trickle of blood emerging from below her hair, near her temple. Her hair was damp with blood, or some other bodily fluid, and it was evident that she had suffered a traumatic head injury. I must have dipped my knees again, succumbing to the the instinct to try to help her.

The officer spoke again, this time I picked up the word ‘Mai’ repeated. No?!, I thought. He motioned with his arms a large cross, firmly indicating that he didn’t want me to touch her. Surely, he’ll help her, I thought. I stepped aside, minding the rigid structure of authority that dictates everyday life here. He was not yelling, but he was firm enough that I was shocked into submission. I stepped back to the sidewalk and waited.

Instead of helping her, the police officer called to someone. A street vendor shuffled towards him, covering her eyes as she held out a wad of newspapers. Upon delivery, she lept back to the safety of the sidewalk. I watched in horror as the police officer daintily unfolded single pieces of newspaper and laid them over the woman, layering them until she was nearly obstructed from view. Only her hair and bare feet were visible. He then proceeded to stand in front of her body and direct traffic around the accident, blowing sharply on his whistle and making exaggerated motions with his hands. All the while, the woman laid crumpled, presumably dying under the flimsy cover of paper.

I looked around. The crowd had dissipated and many people walked by nearly oblivious to what what taking place a few feet away. Is this a dream?, a voice inside my head screamed. I pinched myself and clenched my hands in a combination of frustration and shock. Why is no one helping her? Precious minutes ticked by and my mind kept repeating the first-aid checklist I had developed earlier. Five minutes passed. My scientific training told me that this the witching moment, the fuzzy line between life and death in an individual who has experienced profound trauma. I found myself starting to dismiss any prompt to perform first-aid and instead felt an overwhelming urge to simply hold her hand. No one should be alone at this moment, I kept thinking. The urge became so profound I found myself moving back towards her, only to here a shrill whistle and see a foreboding glance from the officer in my direction. I obediently stepped back, my stomach lurching. No, no, no, no, no. I felt so helpless. I couldn’t imagine how alone she was feeling. In hindsight, I hope she wasn’t feeling anything.

I heard the whine of a siren. At least ten minutes had passed by the time the red and blue lights flooded the scene. A man hopped out the of truck, surveyed the scene and made a motion to drag her out of the road. I had opened my mouth in shock when the police officer sounded his whistle in his direction. Clearly, this was not acceptable behavior. Thank god.

I was so traumatized at this point that I decided to walk away. I couldn’t bear the thought of watching someone heartlessly drag her to make room for traffic. I watched an ambulance weave through traffic towards the accident and hoped that someone in there had a smidge of human decency. I was so upset with myself that I hadn’t persisted in helping her, at the very least comforting her. I fell into a haze, placing one foot in front of the other, while I was lost in my thoughts. At one point during the walk I stepped to the side of the sidewalk and retched violently into a bush, thankful that I had delayed my dinner. It was difficult to believe that the events I had just witnessed were real.

Look Ma, No Hands! Part 2

Above is a video taken from the back of a motorcycle taxi ride. The ride itself is rather tame, but I thought it would be interesting for you to see. It starts near my apartment and ends at the BTS station I use to access the rest of the city. The music is Gwen Stefani's "Happy" and it was selected to try and emulate the thai tecno-pop tunes that seem ubiquitous here.

Look Ma, no hands!

Traffic on South Sathorn Rd, just outside my hotel, was beastly. Cars were in gridlock, honking ferociously, maneuvering on curbs, and whole heartedly ignoring whatever semblance of order the road paint was trying to instill. Crap. I had promised to meet Wesley and the other Mercer english teachers for dinner in 30 minutes. Even with the help of the BTS, I might be beyond fashionably late. I hailed a motorbike taxi, explained that I needed to get to the nearest BTS station with what I believe was the word ‘fast’, and hopped on after agreeing to a fare. Fortunately, my pants allowed me to ride standard instead of the precarious ‘side saddle’ that women are required to resume if wearing a skirt. (Note to self: Avoid wearing a skirt if it might be a motorcycle taxi kind of day.) My crash course in Thai manners had also instructed me to avoid, at all costs, hanging on to your driver. So, there I was, perched on the back of a tiny motorbike about to battle rush hour traffic without the ability to hold on, save for an awkward handle behind my seat.

The engine revved and suddenly I realized that ‘fast’ might have not been the wisest choice of words. My taxi man was on a mission. I gasped each time we passed between spaces tight enough that any reasonable assessment would have deemed them knee cap removers. I quickly deemed that gripping the rear handle was far too dangerous as it positioned my elbow outside the realm of safety... anywhere beyond 6” off the side of the motorbike. So, I let go. Look Ma, no hands! We continued this way, with the occasional sojourn into oncoming traffic, for several kilometers of gridlock. Like magic, my taxi man deftly swerved in and out, back and forth, until he got so frustrated he abandoned the designated road entirely, hopping up on the sidewalk to rocket past stand still traffic. I laughed. Really, it was my only option. I should have been terrified but I had asked for this. Taxi man looked back, smiled, and rocketed forward at an even quicker pace. Then, out of nowhere, the BTS station appeared around a corner. He delivered me to the bottom of the steps and I gave him the negotiated fare of 30 baht and bid him farewell. And, just like that, he was gone.