Wat Phra Baht Nam Phlu, a.k.a. AIDS/HIV Temple

Past the endless fields of sprawling corn stalks; past the hillsides which overstate their humble height against the flattened surrounding landscape; past the ornate temple gate; past the hand-carved wooden dining gazebos lined against the hillside as if awaiting a fireworks show; past the rows of quaint white bungalows with clothing drying on porches that nearly double their size; past piles of construction materials heaving under the heat waiting to be actualized into functional structures; past the small golden image of the Buddha flanked by red-lettered “AIDS” and “HIV” on each side; past the hundreds of stray dogs fawning, yawning, scratching and scurrying in the afternoon’s languor; we wind our car through Wat Phra Baht Nam Phlu’s impressive grounds.

Tanned men in yellow polo shirts aid our arrival in various ways. This one with the pot belly gives us directions. That one with the sallow cheeks helps us park. The third one missing his front teeth walks stiffly around the grounds as our tour guide. They are the able-bodied patients of the temple—victims of a virus vastly misunderstood who are determined not to allow their illness to relegate them to a cot.


Our first stop was the donation center, where we inquired whether we could look around. They welcomed us to, asking that we only agree not to take pictures of the patients. The idea that a person’s suffering could somehow be a tourist attraction to some visitors tied a knot in my stomach. Of course not, I said.

Inside the donation center: images of the head monk, who first envisioned turning the temple into an AIDS/HIV clinic and hospice center, are found everywhere; next to his picture is an image of Budai (or Pu-Tai in Thai), a bodhisattva typically associated with financial prosperity; in front of these images are donation slips which Pao filled out in Thai.



We visited the patient wards. According to a chart in the window of the hospital nurses’ office, there were 104 male patients, including nine monks, and 40 female patients, for a grand total of 144 patients. As we approached the entrance to the hospital, an adolescent boy in a wheelchair and orange monk-like robes was laughing as a man in his forties, who appeared healthier than most of the other patients, was teetering the boy’s wheelchair rapidly back and forth. Beyond them was another teenage patient sitting on a bench. As we approached they stopped playing and wai’d us, saying, “Sawadee klahp! (Hello!).” We smiled and returned the greeting. The boy in the wheelchair looked at me and said, “Thank you for coming!”

We went into the male ward. There were about eighteen to twenty hospital beds in the room. Each bed resembled a private nest lined with personal possessions—blankets, baskets with pens and medicine, books, notebooks, bottles, and other items of personal importance. These beds were where most of these patients spent their days. Many of them hadn’t the strength to leave them. Every man wore a diaper. Their legs were shriveled and their stomachs bloated. A few of the men were blind. Others were discolored. On one side of the ward were refrigerators, a large flat screen TV, and other community appliances like water kettles and cutlery.

After standing in the room for a minute, we suddenly became aware of their awareness of us. Feeling as though we were treating them as zoo exhibits, we wai’d and left the room.

We went into the female ward. Their room was smaller. A larger proportion of the patients were up and about. And their beds were more elaborately decorated. One woman had a giant Winnie the Pooh sitting atop her pastel mountain of personal possession. I paid closer attention to what these patients had to call theirs. One woman had a small film camera. Another had a heating pad to sit on. Their clothing was more varied and more neatly organized into their bed-homes.

Pao talked to a few of the women. She verified that there are a few nurses and a couple doctors on site. One doctor was a foreigner, said one woman, smiling enthusiastically at me. Another woman talked to Pao about what her day to day life was like. She explained that the temple provides them with plenty of food and opportunities to earn a small income. At the same time, it is a limited life, especially if you don’t have the energy levels to work for the temple. She has to go to the local hospital routinely for medical treatment, and likes to buy fruit and other food outside the hospital—food which the temple doesn’t usually have. To buy these, she needs her own money, which she often doesn’t have. She explained that many of the patients appreciate a small amount of personal donation so that they can enjoy these little “luxuries” on their excursions outside the temple.

We asked her, and other patients, a bit about their story—how did they end up at the temple? One lady had gotten AIDS/HIV from unclean tattoo needles many years ago. Our toothless tour guide got it from his mother at birth. So did the boy in the wheelchair. In fact, many of the patients did not get it from sexual promiscuity—an assumption often associated with AIDS/HIV.

Throughout much of Thailand, AIDS/HIV has a stigma that stems largely from ignorance. Many people, especially from older generations and from rural parts, believe that it can be contracted from the air, that merely being around a person with AIDS/HIV puts you at risk of getting it yourself. Many people don’t know how it is spread, nor that free medication is available to treat it. When a Thai person gets AIDS/HIV, they are too often an outcast—they are put out from their home and shunned by their families. Wat Phra Baht Nam Phlu provides a loophole: family members feel morally justified in leaving their undesirables because the temple will provide a spiritual cleansing before death.

Therefore, the patients we met were victims not only of a terrible disease, but also of an obstinate stigma surrounding that disease. They were at the temple to die alone, with no one to visit them or support them emotionally or financially. That’s why many of them lit up when we came into their ward giving out small amounts of cash to each person. We approached each patient and gave him/her a small allowance of 40 baht—not much, but enough to bring light and gratitude to their eyes. Some of the patients lacked the strength or eyesight to reach out for the money, so we gently wedged it between their feeble fingers.


We owe a huge gratitude to our friends and family for helping us make the donations we made. Between the individual patient donations and a lump sum at the donation center, we were able to give a little over 20,000 baht. We gave a little extra to our tour guide and the forty-something man for assisting us. Then we climbed the stairs to visit the large buddha at the top of the hill. With our descent, we ended our visit and left the temple.


From our observations and interviews with patients, we feel satisfied that they are getting the best possible care and support in spite of a stigma that makes them social outcasts. We hope that the temple can also start making efforts towards educating the community about AIDS/HIV, especially with regards to how to treat its victims with dignity.

Thank you to everyone who supported this effort!


This is the prayer you are supposed to say when you make a donation.

Breaking up a fight

Wednesdays are my favorite days at work. My teaching schedule is such that I don’t have class until 11:30 in the morning. So I usually take the bulk of the morning to catch up on either work or errands. And if those are caught up, I spend the morning reading, writing, or watching something on Netflix. Today, I needed to get my motorbike washed. Luckily, there is a place across from the school with a cafe next to it. So I thought I’d get the bike washed, fill up on caffeine, and work on progress reports due in about 3 weeks (don’t get me started on those).

As I was driving through campus, I saw a seventh-grade boy throw a pencil case at a girl. Thai kids can be very physical in their expression, so I’ve grown accustomed to shrugging these gestures off. But then he threw his book at her.

I stopped the motorbike and parked it right there, next to the students, who were standing in the campus road (also something I’ve grown accustomed to).

Once I took my helmet off, they knew I was a teacher. I could see they wanted to scatter. “Come here,” I said to them.

Fortunately, Thai kids are extremely respectful. So now that the order had been given, they wouldn’t dare run off. Instead they waied and said, “Sorry, teacher.”

But that wasn’t good enough for me. “Why did you throw your stuff at her?”

Silence. Not as much from guilt, but from a limitation in language. Other students who had crowded around interpreted and helped the boy with the right language. “She say bad thing.”

“What did she say?”

More interpretation and discussion. “She say I’m ladyboy.”

Suppressing my amusement, I turned to the girl, who was fuming at this accusation. “Is this true? Did you call him a ladyboy?” She nodded, steam rising from her head. “Why?”

“Because he say bad about my skin!” she pointed to her arm.

I’ve lived in Thailand long enough to know what he said. But I continued to play detective. I turned to the boy. “What did you say about her skin?” I asked, pointing to my arm.

Translation and discussion. I heard the Thai word for black which confirmed my suspicion. “I say she black.”

It’s worth explaining here that when Thai people say black, they mean tanned. And if you don’t understand Thai culture, or Asian culture in general, tanned skin is generally considered undesirable. Rich, high-born Thais do business indoors and languish in their shaded courts. Peasants work the fields and get a tan. So even though the insult seems silly, especially given that the skin tones of the two students was nearly the same, for the girl it was a remark about her beauty and her status.

“Why did you say that to her?”

He understood the question, but was now too embarrassed to answer. He looked at me sheepishly and bowed slightly, saying, “Sorry, teacher.”

“Don’t say sorry to me. Say it to her.”

“Sorry,” he said to her, somewhat half-heartedly.

“Say it in Thai. Say it like you mean it.”

He muttered an apology in Thai. I know enough Thai to know he actually apologized politely.

“Good.” I turned to the girl. “Is it right to call him a ladyboy because he calls you black?”

“No. But I angry.”

“I know. But there’s a right way and a wrong way to be angry. Do you understand?” She nodded. “Say sorry to him.”

She waied and choked out an apology in Thai, though I could see she resented it.

I asked their names and classrooms. Then I warned them that if I ever saw them fighting again I’d take them to a Thai teacher. It was clear that they preferred my soft American mediation to the beating they’d probably receive from my local counterpart. The threat to involve a Thai teacher struck fear in them. They both waied again, and ran off.

As I continued my short trip to the car wash, I couldn’t help but think This is Thailand.

The Late King Bhumibol Adulyadej

This year has been a rough year in terms of losing beloved icons. 

Think of the celebrities who passed away this year. Now concentrate on the one you loved and will miss the most.

Remember how you felt in the moment you learned he/she died. Remember both the personal feeling of loss, as well as the intellectual grief that saw the vacuum they left.

Now imagine that you were raised from the time you could speak to say that person’s name with reverence. Imagine that from the time you first packed your vinyl Mario Bros or Disney Princess backpack and headed off to school, you were taught that this person was akin to a parent. In fact, this person was greater than a parent. A parent is a mere human, but this person is like a god—benevolent and dedicated to your well-being. You have never bought or sold anything with handling images of this person. Every week at school, you sing a song written by and dedicated to that person, and rise for that same song before every movie you watch in theatres. Imagine that this person is the very fabric of your society, the very definition of your culture, and the very center of your nation’s stability and order.

This is the connection most Thais feel towards the late King Bhumibol Adulyadej.

It took me some time to appreciate and sympathize with this depth of feeling. The disconnect I felt with Thai grief was due in part to the fact that I’ve never felt a great loss at the passing of any famous stranger. Moreover, I had allowed myself to read the unofficial history of his life—which includes the forbidden criticisms of his legacy. It’s hard to appreciate a man’s accomplishments when you learn of his secret frustrations.

I first learned of the king’s passing while on a short return visit to the U.S. I remember being unsurprised, as there were prior reports of failing health, but still gasping at the implications. In my mind, it felt like Yeats’s “Second Coming”: “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.” The political implications of Thailand’s stabilizing father passing on were not lost on me.

Where I was taken aback was in Thailand’s extreme response. Thailand’s response to tragedy is always a bit less than measured. And from my understanding from abroad, it seemed Thailand was overreacting. Bars were closed, costing people like my girlfriend precious income. Celebration of any kind was forbidden; so public music was unofficially banned. The people, Thais and foreigners alike, were urged not to wear bright colors. Anyone criticizing the king was violently dragged to their knees before his portrait and coerced into apologies and respect.

 I scoffed. I raged.

Then I flew back.

As I flew, I pondered the king’s impact on the lives of his subjects. I pondered their abject loyalty and devotion. Suddenly I started to understand.

To help me make that leap to empathize with Thai people who would insist that the world stop rotating for a year just so that they can process their grief, I thought of a world leader that I greatly revere: President Obama. 

Before you scoff, let me justify my choice. Overall, I am proud of his accomplishments as president. He doesn’t represent the radical shift to the left that my fellow progressives had hoped for, but he possesses, at the very least, an intellectual poise and personal charisma that strong leaders are made of. In many ways, he’s analogous to the late king in that very fact—he has a cult of personality that numbs many valid criticisms. Intellectually, I’m unsatisfied with his presidency, but emotionally, I just fucking love the guy. Some would point out the blood on his hands. I’m quick to wave it away and ask what world leader doesn’t have blood on his hands. I’m quick to wave it away and ask what world leader doesn’t have blood on his hands. Had Obama died tragically (but not assassinated—that’s quite a different scenario), I’m sure the grief and loss I’d feel would be akin to what Thais feel now.

When I returned, there was a noticeably different atmosphere in Thailand. It was quiet. The nights were darker. A great majority of people carried on with their lives, but more calmly and wearing black. And it all seemed…appropriate. After all, their father, their demi-god, their second Buddha, their caretaker, their center, their leader, their light, their constant, and, most crucially, their hope: these had all left them in the passing of one figure.

Mourning the king isn’t just about mourning a celebrity. It isn’t about mourning a political figure, either. And it isn’t simply about mourning a beloved father. Thailand now mourns the loss of perhaps its greatest stabilizing force during the 20th century, the one constant through seven decades of military coupes and constant constitutional reconstruction. The king modernized his country and prioritized sustainable development before it was ever a buzzword. He believed that his reign represented the truest form of democracy, elevated above any parliament or senate, because he was the greatest power of Thailand with an ear bent toward the will of his subjects. His seemingly endless royal projects testify to his responsiveness to Thailand’s multifarious needs. 

In effect, Thailand mourns the death of a benevolent god, the essence of their national identity.

Happy Birthday to ME!

November 2015.

Despite my beard and stubborn little gut, there’s still an 8-year-old boy inside me that once a year wants to jump on the nearest table, put on a paper-coned hat, and shout, “It’s my birthday! What’d you get me?”

But my learned social composure and 32-year-old crow’s feet always keep me from making a scene. Luckily for the little despondent birthday boy inside, however, Thai people have cultivated a more subtle way to get attention.

“Anyone want pizza for lunch?” I blurted in the teacher’s lounge moments before morning assembly. A ripple of excitement flittered across the faces of a few of my fellows. B-r-r-r-r-ring! There was the bell that regulated the lives of student and teacher alike.

As the students lined up outside sucking in the moistening morning air, I gazed around in wonderment at how unremarkable the day would be. The sun wasn’t any brighter or dimmer. The students weren’t any more or less chipper. The sky was the same shade of pale blue with the same brownish overlays of pollution wafting here and there.

Thump! Thump! Thump! The bass drum counted in the national anthem. The flag-pulley’s irregular squeaks struck a dissonant harmony with the patriotic chimes of the xylophone no differently than any other morning. The tatters of the flag sighed apathetically in the light morning breeze.

On my last birthday, I had only been living in Thailand for a couple months, so it was the usual celebration—out to a bar for the night with any old acquaintance who could make it. The difference was that my acquaintances were new, not old, and there was actually cake. The Thais aren’t shy about carrying a cake into a bar and asking the service staff to help with cutting and plating. In a way, last year’s birthday was an official welcome to the Land of Smiles—a welcome to a foreigner using universal elements of birthday partying.

This year, my birthday landed in the middle of the workweek. That meant that I had to teach classes and get on with life as if nothing special was going on. It also meant I wasn’t going out partying that night or doing anything extravagant.

It’s only fitting, I told myself. Thirty-two is an unremarkable age. Tuesday is an unremarkable day of the week. Why should anyone make a fuss? I certainly wasn’t going to. Propriety had long taught me not to make a fuss, even on my birthday. However, honesty reminded me that I craved the attention.

So I went about it the Thai way. I ordered two large pizzas from my favorite pizza place. As the lunch hour neared its closing, my treat had finally arrived.

I carried the two giant boxes proudly through the canteen, feeling the heat of the students’ glares almost as viscerally as from the bottom of the pizza. As I crossed paths with students stumbling about as they’re wont to do during free periods, I had to stifle my laughter at how stunned and confused they were when they eyed my lunch. I became aware of a slowly rising mob of zombies salivating for the spoils of ambush. Don’t look back, I told myself.

I entered the teacher’s room, the beam of my smile lighting my way. “Oh, Lord,” uttered one British teacher.

The aromas of freshly baked dough and tomato sauce comingled and filled the room, betraying to all within nose-shot what repast we teachers were enjoying. I opened the box and felt a burst of steam flow through my face. My colleagues stood nearby, perplexed at what to do next. “Help yourselves,” I said.

They reached in and tried to manage the greasy cheesiness without the aid of plate, napkin, or fork. Eventually I brought A4 paper in from my classroom to serve as impromptu plates. And we all ate in satisfied silence. Compliments were given to the pizza restaurant, inspiring recommendations and a rough description of its location.

But in ten short minutes the tyrannical bell rang, and I left two largely uneaten pizzas on my desk in the staff room and proceeded to my next class. On my brief shuffle from staff room to classroom, rumors of “pizza” were being whispered among the students. They gazed at me with curiosity and supplication. A change was gradually infecting the students—some primal parasite prodding their mouths to water and their gait to limp. Pizzaaaa.

I finished my class without episode and reentered the staffroom. My pizza still sat there cooling. I grabbed another piece and chewed while contemplating the acute angles that marked it’s missing pieces. How in the hell was I going to finish this thing? No way was I bringing it home! I’ve become my mother—overzealous in preparation. It didn’t help that the other teachers had already eaten during the lunch hour, before the pizza arrived.

Then it occurred to me—I was in a building full of teenagers, whose appetites miraculously never wane even in spite of gluttonous gorging. I went back to my classroom and announced to the four girls milling about, “If you want a piece of pizza you may help yourselves.”

Beams of light shot from their eyes. “Really?”

“Yes, but keep it amongst yourselves. It’s a secret. I don’t have enough to go around.”

They each grabbed a slice and began chomping down on it. Immediately I realized I had made several mistakes. First, they were already late to class, and I was rewarding their tardiness with pizza. Second, there were teachers on other floors who should have had first dibs. Third, there has never been a time in human history when a teenager has been able to keep pizza a secret. Within minutes, other students were creeping out of their classrooms asking for pizza. I had to tell each student that other teachers needed to have a slice, but when the teachers have finished they could have the leftovers. That promise, however empty, was enough to keep the zombies at bay for another hour.

At afternoon break, I began visiting all the other classrooms. “I have pizza in the staffroom for all teachers, if you want a slice.” The Filipino teachers knew immediately what was up: “Oh, it’s your birthday today?”

One by one, teachers stepped into the staff room to claim their slice. Being walled with windows on all sides, the staffroom was fully visible from outside. Thus, students gathered around the windows peering in, drooling over promised pizza, groaning whenever another teacher entered the staffroom.

I entered the staffroom after making my rounds, passing a panting, murmuring mob of hungry students on my way inside. “Teacher, now?” they inquired.

“Let me make sure every teacher’s had some.”


I examined the pizza when I entered. There were 4 slices left, and I had taken a request to bring one up to the head teacher. I grabbed a slice and looked up. Fog waxed and waned on the windows of the staffroom as students smeared themselves against the glass. I couldn’t possibly pass the famished throng unscathed. I darted left where there were fewer of them, and dashed to the nearest staircase. I glanced over my shoulder—they had begun limping my way. I had only speed and wits as my advantage over them.

After delivering the pizza to my boss, I cautiously crept downstairs. They students were still smudged against the windows salivating. I ducked quickly into the staffroom–the only safe haven from the ravenous teenage mob. The pizza had been wholly consumed, with only a mound of cheese and toppings in the middle of each box. I brought the boxes into my classroom, with the undead in tow. “Eat your hearts out,” I said.

Their eyes narrowed. They licked their lips. They stared gluttonously at the boxes. After a momentary pause, they attacked the boxes. Seeing its contents, they slowly looked up from their scavenged scraps as if to say, “That’s it?” But they simultaneously shrugged and tore up chunks of cheese and toppings and devoured them. And like a gust of wind, they were gone.

Only an hour later, when the final bell had rung, did some of the students appear to me, looking human again, and wished me a happy birthday.

I’m baaaaaaaack!

Hello, hello, hello!

One hello for every month I’ve been silent. I’ve been on an unannounced hiatus from blogging. I’d love to give some magical, marvelous explanation for the non-activity. I’d love to say I was off in some monastery for three months meditating with monks. I’d love to say I was high on life chillin’ with Thai locals. I’d love to say that I was on some walking tour in some untapped national forest getting my mind blown by all sorts of flora and fauna.

Honestly, I’ve just been busy and unmotivated. I had planned this amazing 10-post article leading up to my one-year anniversary in Thailand on September 9th. But I failed at getting that out in time. That’s right: one year. Thirteen months now. It’s hard for me to believe. It’s all gone by so fast. And in settling I’ve lost a bit of my spirit of adventure. At least my bank account has. Anyway, the novelty has worn off for me a bit, and I’m sure that’s been reflected in some of my latter posts. The sharp decline in readership during my last few posts have been alarmingly telling with regards to reader interest.

So I’m changing strategy. Quality over quantity. Rather than posting frequently, I’ll be posting as I feel true inspiration. It’ll make writing more enjoyable for me, and reading more enjoyable for you.

Here’s what you can look forward to in the immediate future. I did write have some articles some time ago that I’m still keen on publishing. I just need to spiff them up a bit. I also still have that serial article I referred to above. In fact, now that I’m in its revision phase, I’m quite excited about it. After a barrage of buffed backlog, you can look forward to earnestly inspired writing on a probably infrequent timetable. That’s fancy talk for “I’ll write again when I damn please.”

Check back again soon for the first serial article! It’s good to be back!

Hiatus Completum

Hello faithful readers. You may have noticed I haven’t posted something for about a month now. Some of you were inundated with my presence, in the flesh, during my visit to the United States. If you weren’t one of those unfortunate souls to have to entertain me and rejuvenate my hope for humanity via drinks and conversation, then you probably also didn’t know of my venture to the motherland to gather supplies and recollect my social wellbeing. As you have probably guessed by now, this explains my digital absence. But now I’ve returned revived and triumphant, and I’m here to continue this blogging exercise. 

I cannot predict how consistent or dependable my posts will be in the coming months. Currently I’m on “summer” holiday. That is, the Thai school year begins mid-May and ends mid-March, so I am enjoying two months’ paid respite from the stress and joys of teaching. Such a recess of responsibility entails everything from taking nibbles at preparations for next school year to lying around doing diddly squat to taking minor excursions to nearby points of interest. My next post will be a much overdo description of one of such trips–to Ko Samed. See you there (at the posting, not the island).