Bangkok Stories

Bun Ma means the arrival of good fortune. I asked for permission to take and share this photo

I’ve been trying to do a better job speaking Thai. Practicing simple sentences. Slowing down. Trying to listen, not just respond. Trying to mean what I say.

For a while, when people asked how I was, I’d smile and say: “Chan dee.” I meant, I’m good.

But “chan dee” doesn’t just mean good in Thai. It means morally good. Buddha good. Good-with-a-capital-G.

For a week I walked around Bangkok declaring my spiritual purity, and I couldn’t figure out why people looked at me strange.

Eventually, someone corrected me. The phrase I was looking for was: “Chan sabai dee.” I’m fine.

I’m okay.

I’m at ease.

I met her a few years ago, during the COVID lockdowns. I wandered the streets of mid-Sukhumvit a lot then. It was a sad and beautiful time.

Sad, because so many things were closed and so many people were in need.

Beautiful, because the normal frantic energy of the city had slowed to a snail's pace.

The weather was pleasant and the sidewalks and roads were empty. After a few months, it was hard to remember the city’s usual rajistic temperament.

She had just set up her little piece of cardboard, like ground cover, a nest under a pedestrian bridge. She hadn’t yet unpacked her bag of trinkets and miniature packs of Kleenex, things I might keep in my purse, if I was a fourteen year old girl and I carried a purse. None of it costs more than twenty baht. I’d seen her before sitting on the sidewalk trying to sell her humble wares. The day this happened there weren’t a lot of people around to care.

She was currently in a life or death tug-of-war with a skinny, dirty Thai man. He was screaming and jumping around. She was using the full weight of her ass to try to stop him from taking her bag of trinkets, that and the peice of cardboard were all she had. There were a few people around mostly Thai men, hotel security guards and taxi drivers, all with long faces, looking for someone, anyone, to take their fare. They gave the altercation the side eye from the side lines.

I almost walked by, but at the last moment I stopped and asked if she was okay. She said she was not. I didn’t want to engage with the man, who was still screaming and hanging on to her bag like a dog with a bone. He seemed drunk or high on ya ba. Lola and I just stood there.

Mai dai!

I yelled at him, leave her alone!

He yelled, jumped around a bit more, but we stood our ground, two old women and a little hound. Eventually, he gave up, swore at us and buggered off down Sukhumvit.

I helped her set up her things. I gave her a hug.

Then I walked away.

I still see her around. Not every day. But I always stop for a minute and ask her how she is. I don’t need the trinkets, but every once in a while I slip her 20 baht.

Earlier this month I bought a lottery ticket, on the seventh day of the seventh month. Double sevens. Sure to bring some luck my way. When I saw her that morning, I stopped and sat down beside her on the pavement. She shared her piece of cardboard with me. I asked her how she was. Not good. No money.

Things aren’t really good for any of us in Thailand these days.

The people have come back but they walk by and don’t even see her. She thinks she’s becoming invisible. I assured her she’s not.

But I can sure relate. She wanted to know if in Canada we have tam boon. No . Not in the same way. Christian charity doesn’t quite make the cut. And paying it forward at Tim Hortons doesn’t count.

Before I leave I reach into my wallet and give her my lucky lotto ticket, thank her for the conversation and wish her good luck.

I don’t know her real name. But I like to think it’s Bun Ma. I feel lucky , seven times over, for taking the time to stop and talk.