Archive for December, 2010

Road accidents with multiple fatalities are a sad fact of life in Thailand.

In May, a pickup full of migrant Burmese workers crashed and killed 13 of the workers; the driver was trying to evade the police. In November, a van drove off an elevated expressway and nine occupants were killed. The driver’s attention had been diverted. Last week, five people died and fifty were injured in a fifteen vehicle pile-up. The list is long, and nobody really gives a shit; apart from those affected by the incidents. We see the news, express regret, and move on. The authorities promise to take action in respect of whatever they decided contributed to the accident, do nothing, and get back to lining their pockets. It’s the way of the world.

Yesterday a car hit a van in Bangkok, the van plunged off the expressway, and eight people died. Just another accident, but the media exploded. Why?

Well, for a start, unlike the thirteen Burmese workers who died, the dead in this crash were Thai university graduates; and we all know that five Thai university graduates are considered of more value than thirteen Burmese workers. And the icing on the media-frenzied cake was the fact that the apparent cause of the accident was a sixteen year old girl, with no driving licence, from a very well-connected family. Oh, how delicious; a perfect opportunity to wring our hands at the enormity of the tragedy and pour scorn and hatred on the girl.

The foreign forums have been stupidly vicious enough, but they have been as nothing compared to the venom unleashed on Thai social media (according to my local informant). By the end of today, the consensus seems to be that she is the spawn of the devil who deliberately caused the crash; rather than an unfortunate young girl who should never have been given the keys to a car, and then made a mistake with a result which will haunt her for the rest of her days.

Of course, if she had hit a van full of Burmese workers, nobody would have paid any attention.

Not a good example of Buddhism in action, Thailand.

Started the day with a joyous trip to immigration for my 90 day report. The place was heaving, with more than a few ignoring the simple rule that you should dress decently when meeting government officials. Last week’s tank top, with matching smells, and a pair of tatty shorts, was the offering from one gentleman. Fortunately, I raised the tone with a bow-tie and silver cane.

Twenty minutes felt like hours, but back home in time to leave for a meeting to discuss a book which is apparently to be adorned with my photos. Just leaving the condo car park and receive a call to tell me the meeting is postponed; shortly followed by another call deferring a photoshoot tentatively planned for this afternoon. This is all good news because it is windy.

Most windsurfers have a few sails at the their disposal, and the smallest sail has always been bought at a moment of optimism; perhaps brought on by a few beers. This little handkerchief of a sail will only work when the wind is really howling, like it very rarely does in the Gulf of Thailand.

But today it was really windy and I was able to brush off a rather dusty and scruffy little sail which I had last used in 2009. I had planned to take some photos, but the session was cut short due to the need to go sailing, and other distractions.

See, not all arse-cracks are bad.

An excellent sailing session followed, after which I was totally knackered and only bleeding from two places. Home to a Magnum ice cream and a most acceptable sunset.

Dinner and a large beer at a local noodle stall, and right now I am convinced that the world is a pretty damn fine place. But I do need to go and lie down for a while.

P.S. How’s the weather in Europe?

In my younger days, when the world existed in black and white (or so my wife believes), my weekly rituals included the purchase of The Sunday Times. It was not so much the journalistic content, it was more to do with the sheer size of the thing. Never mind the quality, look at all these supplements.

Sunday morning was not complete without a trip to the newsagents to pick up a copy, which would then be scattered over the sofa for the rest of the day and consumed piecemeal over the following week.

Then we moved from North East England to Scotland, and I was aghast to discover that the ST did not make the journey north until mid-afternoon. So much for Sunday morning coffee and the ST magazine. I should have checked before accepting the move.

Then a transfer to The Hague where I imagined my ST days would be over, and I would be reduced to looking at the pictures in De Telegraaf. But no. A pleasant cycle down to the main railway station on a Sunday morning would find the paper waiting for me at the bookstore. Civilised Sundays were restored, surrounded by more print than I could read, with inky fingers and a feeling of contentment.

But then I came to Asia, and although Kuala Lumpur and other locations offered the ST, it could not be found on a Sunday, was only a re-print of some of the content, and it cost a fortune. My Sunday Times Sundays were over.

Until today.

Now I have this on my iPad:

Every section of the paper is available (five further sections are not shown above, but they are just a scroll down the screen away). If I am not interested in a particular section, I just don’t bother to download it (no point in reading about sport outside of the Grand Prix season).

And it is beautifully implemented. Scroll down to read an article. scroll right to move to the next. Tap a photo to see it in full screen and, where indicated, scroll to then watch a slideshow. I never felt I was lost, and often felt I was being offered much more than I would receive if all I had was the printed page. The text is crisp and easy to read, the photos are high-resolution, and there are even videos on offer, which are hard to implement in the printed edition.

What’s missing? Just the advertisements as far as I can tell; although there are a few single page adverts included, most of which link to a video and can be easily ignored. And the Classifieds section only has four advertisements; so I am going for the position as Programme Controls Director with Crossrail; which I think means I will work in a signal box for a six figure salary.

The price is $2.99, which means I will not indulge weekly (unless I get the job in the signal box); but it is comforting to know that my favourite newspaper is now available when I feel the need.

And no more inky fingers.

Panasonic GF1 + Voightlander 25mm