Toasting a sweet victory

Maiyuu and I are celebrating Pheu Thai's victory in yesterday's general election with a bottle of pink sparkling wine.

The bubbly has sat in the fridge for weeks awaiting victory for the populist party. Finally, the moment has arrived.

‘We’ll wait for the Election Commission to confirm the results...then we’ll tackle that bottle of champagne,’ Maiyuu said a moment ago.

I have asked him for weeks if we could open the bottle early – everyone knew a victory for Pheu Thai was coming, though perhaps not with the thumping majority delivered on the day - but Maiyuu held out for the big event.

I am pleased he did, as it makes success for our party that much sweeter.

We like Pheu Thai, not so much for its policies, or even its charismatic leader, but simply because it represents the voice of the unloved majority.

The Democrat-led government which it will replace came to power in coalition talks after the 2007 election, called by the military junta which in September 2006 overturned the government led by Thaksin Shinawatra.

Preliminary results from the EC last night indicated that with 94% of the vote counted, Pheu Thai - led by Thaksin's younger sister, Yingluck - had won a decisive majority, with 261 of 500 parliamentary seats.

Its nearest rival, the Democrats, led by Abhisit Vejjajiva – how I enjoyed all those fawning references in the foreign press to his Oxford education, as if that should mean something to struggling Thais - won 162 seats.

Pheu Thai will still need the help of smaller parties to govern, and coalition talks were already underway last night.

Speaking to supporters at her party headquarters, Yingluck declined to declare victory until final results are released. But she said: 'I don’t want to say that Pheu Thai wins today. It’s a victory of the people.'

In a shaky democracy such as ours, victory can be claimed by no party, but to the people at large who voted that party into office.

Yingluck knows, as we all do, that no electoral victory can hold unless the military and establishment accept the result. Bugger the poor! If the Bangkok elite’s interests are threatened, the government has to go.

Odd contrasts abound. The awkward sight on the campaign trial of nerdish Abhisit, struggling to fit in with the common folk as he sampled street food in a stinking, bustling fresh market.

Against that, the queues of ordinary Thais waiting at polling stations for hours in the rain yesterday, just for the chance to have their say.

Let’s give the last word to Maiyuu, who as a child was forced to live on hand-me-down school uniforms, as his parents could afford to buy him none of his own.

‘Under Thaksin, Thais led decent lives, with acceptable wages. Under the Democrats, the cost of living rose too high, and we suffered.

‘Now that the people have spoken, the next government will have to listen.’

Baby fever breaking out all over

Hong Kong blogger Joycey has announced to her readers that she is pregnant....seven months into term, in fact, though she doesn’t look it.

I was delighted to read Joycey’s news, even though I don’t know her. Baby fever is so infectious it can make the problems of our adult lives seem silly.

I wish Joyce and her husband Marc all the best as they embark on their big adventure.

I do not have kids of my own, but through my friend in the slums, Mr Ball, who is father to a girl aged one month, I feel as if I do.

Ball and his girlfriend share with me intimate details of their parenthood experience, so I am lucky.

When I drop in, often I find them locked in conversation about this or that minute detail about their daughter's care. They appear as if they have been transported to another place.

Ball and Jay have posted half a dozen videos to YouTube of their young daughter. In the first videos, taken shortly after birth, she is tiny.

In the latest, taken four weeks later, she looks much bigger, and stronger. A few days ago, she started eating banana, her first solids since birth.

'The banana discovery was magic,' enthuses Ball. 'She sleeps better, and hardly grizzles.'

Ball’s teenage face appears in the frame of one video, planting half a dozen kisses on his daughter’s cheek.

One day, baby Min (we now have a name), will be old enough to know how devoted her parents are, and how much hope they have invested in her future.

By then, she’ll be old enough to think for herself.

Ball and Jay will have to get used to having a young set of eyes keenly observing the way they conduct their lives, mimicking them, passing judgement, as she grows into the responsible young adult whom her parents hope to mould.

What is parenthood, if not the opportunity to help build a child’s future? It must be the most exciting journey on earth, and I regret never having the courage to take such a bold step myself.

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Korn pom fai (someone else's baby)

Baby Min now has a shaved head, to mark the first month since she emerged from her mother’s womb.

A few days ago, Ball’s mother shaved Min’s head and eyebrows, as part of a Thai custom known as korn pom fai  (โกนผมไฟ).

Some Thais invite a monk to do it, as they believe it is more likely to bring good luck and fortune.

At Ball’s place, Mum performed the task – just as she shaved the heads of the household's two toddlers, less than two years ago - and the heads of her own four children, many years before.

I was walking through the slum on the way to the 7-11 when I came across Ball’s mother, clutching a small bag of jasmine flowers. ‘I am about to shave the baby’s head...come and watch,’ she said.

When I turned up at her place 10 minutes later, Mum already had the baby in hand, and was shaving her head with a razor, aided by lao khao (rice whisky) in place of shaving cream.

The alcohol, wiped on her head, helped cut away a thin deposit of what looked like fat, or perhaps skin cells, which came off when Mum shaved off the baby’s hair.

‘Some Thais believe the hair which the baby has on her head at birth may carry germs or illness. Cut it off, and she will enjoy better health,’ Mum explained.

‘However, the most popular belief is that if we cut off her hair and eyebrows now, they will grow back fuller than before,’ she said.

After one month, the child’s parents can also cut their child’s fingernails and toenails for the first time.

Once her little head was shaved – Baby Min slept through most of the ordeal, and barely whimpered even while awake – Mum started on her eyebrows. She rubbed jasmine petals on the space where the eyebrows were, to help them grow back more fully.

Mum's four adult children all have thick eyebrows, and wonderfully thick heads of hair, so perhaps the ritual works.

Min is an attractive child, even without hair, I noticed last night. Her head has an unusual angular shape, though I am told the shape of head, like everything else about her body, can change.

Mother, father and I tried to work out whether the hair on her head had started to grow back yet.

‘It looks darker,’ insisted Jay.

‘Rubbish...too soon,’ said Ball, good naturedly.

Self-help takes root in the slums

The slum home where I invested thousands of baht in an ill-fated noodle venture has sprung back to life.

Jean, the teenage grand-daughter of its owner Wan, has started selling fried savoury goods. I see her walking up and down the slum alleyway, taking orders from residents, and explaining what her little ‘shop’ offers.

This is an encouraging sign, as I thought Wan had given up trying to help herself.

She asked me for the loan to help her revive a noodle business, but seldom opened her place to sell anything, and ended up spending most of my money paying the rent.

Wan, who is in her 50s, raises three grand-children at her rundown two-storey home: two boys aged under 10, and Jean, aged 16.

I enjoy chatting to them when I pass through the slum, as they are not a bad lot, even though Wan took my money shamelessly, and probably has no intention paying it back.

In their new food venture, Wan buys the ingredients at the market, which Jean then cooks up in the main room facing the slum alleyway.

The place only has just a few rooms, as far as I can tell: the main room, toilet, and small annex which serves as a cooking or storage area on the ground floor; and an upstairs sleeping area.

Jean is mother to a baby daughter, born a few weeks ago. As Jean cooks, her newborn lies in a basket nearby. The other kids are usually watching TV, or out playing football or computer games with friends.

Jean fries the food, but instead of selling it on the counter in front of the house, now takes it on a plate to slum-dwellers direct.

‘How's business?’ I asked the young cook as I passed through the other day.

‘I don’t know yet. This is the first day our shop has opened,’ Jean replied.

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Ball’s daughter is now one month old.

She looks little changed from when she first came out of hospital, I thought, as I inspected her features the other night.

A small welt has grown on her arm where the doctor gave her a vaccine shortly after her birth.

Other than that, I noticed little new in the week since I saw her last. She sleeps, eats, cries.

I asked Jay if she was still trying to feed the baby from her breast, rather than relying on powdered milk as she does now.

‘When I put her on the breast, she cries. She is used to the convenience of the bottle, and can’t be bothered sucking on my breast to draw milk,’ she said.

We blame the hospital where she was born.

Nurses allowed Jay to hold her child only twice in the first three days after her daughter’s birth.

Nurses started feeding the baby from the bottle as soon as she was born, and by keeping Jay away from her daughter, ensured that few of those important early bonding moments between mother and child took place.

‘One woman staying at the hospital snuck into the room where they kept the newborns and tried to suckle the child on her breast while nurses weren’t looking,’ said Jay.

In my day, healthy newborns were put next to the mother as she recovered in hospital. The two were seldom apart.

‘Nurses told me that they wanted me to rest. They wouldn’t allow me to get up, even to go to the toilet,’ said Jay.

Jay gave birth in a small private hospital supposedly renowned for its medical expertise.

The hospital offered no maternity ward as such. Jay recovered in a general ward, sleeping among sick people, which explains why nurses were keen to keep mother and newborn apart.

The unfortunate result appears to be that we cannot persuade the baby to take her mother’s milk, which would be better for building immunity.

It would also be cheaper than powdered milk, which is no small expense for a couple struggling financially such as Ball and Jay.

I gave Ball some money to help them buy a few items for the child. Ball gave me a deep wai, and we carried on chatting.

Jay says she is likely to return to work next month. Ball will care for the child during the day, when he also looks after the two toddlers of the household.

‘I have asked me boss if I can return to work, but he wants me to rest another month or so,’ said Jay.

Ball says his daughter has her father’s hot temper.

‘She grizzles less than she did, but demands immediate attention if she is hungry. She frowns and looks at me angrily if I do not respond,’ he said, laughing.

The glories of togetherness

Relations with boyfriend Maiyuu are back on track after a rough two days in which we argued, fought, and wondered why were still living with each other.

Maiyuu’s health has been shaky lately. He comes down with chest colds often, and finds he has to spend the day on the couch.

I am working long days, and could do with his support around home. When he is unwell, however, I have to do without, which increases the pressure on me, and (he would argue) makes life harder for Maiyuu as well.

‘You won’t let me recover for even one day. You walk around home wearing a foul look, as if I am a lazy good-for-nothing, when just the day before I might have put in a full day’s work in the kitchen, running the household, and caring for you,’ he says.

At the height of the drama, both of us wished we could have been elsewhere. I tell myself that if I keep my head down, and mouth closed, within a short time the tensions will have passed.

And so they do. Today is a new day, and I feel as if we are making a new beginning.

Maiyuu is back to making his usual acerbic comments about the large, insensitive farang with whom he shares his life. I am back to making my usual silken speeches about how, after a glorious 10 years together, we cannot afford to part.

PS: Sorry if that sounds a little cynical. I really am delighted that relations are back on a normal, if still shaky footing. The process of rebuilding, vital to the success of any relationship, has now resumed in earnest.

In the hands of a pro

Ball’s aunt lifted up his baby daughter and inspected her rear end.

‘The poor thing has a chafed bottom. This is why she cries so much,’ she pronounced.

Eed applied a blue potion which is supposed to cure such things. Within a few moments, the baby had stopped her crying, and fallen asleep in Eed’s arms.

Aunty Eed, elder sister to Ball’s mother, was visiting from her place in Onnut, at least an hour away by car.

Eed has little to her name – she regularly takes back empty beer bottles from Ball’s home for recycling – but on each visit since the birth of Ball’s child, has managed to bring small items to help.

Last night she brought a largish plastic bag of clothes and towels.

Ball’s mum shouts her elder sister a few bottles of beer. In the early hours of the next morning, Eed heads home by public bus.

I enjoy Eed’s visits. I make sure I give her a wai when I see her, as she is one of the few visitors to Ball’s slum home whom I respect.

Ball and his girlfriend Jay, as new parents, are only too aware that they lack experience in raising children.

I think they do a good job, but they can’t help but worry whenever the baby cries.

The baby, who has yet to be named, sleeps during the day, and cries at night.

‘Sometimes I think she wakes at night because she just wants to play. But other times she cries so hard, I wonder what is wrong,’ said Ball.

‘I worry that she has taken too much milk, and has a sore stomach. Or perhaps it’s a build-up of air. I put her on my shoulder and walk around to make her feel better,’ he said.

Ball’s daughter has no eyebrows, but plenty of hair on her head. They have registered her name with the local body office, but have yet to coin for her a nickname.

We toyed with calling her raikew – ‘no eyebrows’, in Thai. Jay coined the nickname ‘omyim,’ or ‘smile’, but Ball decided that wouldn’t do.

‘She spends more time crying than she does smiling,’ he said.

Omyim (as I shall call her here) is a curious girl. ‘All she does is eat,’ said Ball’s mum, who is no less adept at raising children than her elder sister, Eed.

Little daunts this pair of seasoned hands, as both have raised families of their own.

The other night I watched as Ball’s mother bathed the child in a plastic tub.

She dried and powdered Omyim, dressed her, and put her down to sleep, in a painstaking process which takes at least half an hour.

When she cries, we give her a bottle. She draws on it a few times, and falls asleep, almost instantly.

Sometimes, however, the bottle will not do, and we have to put the child on shoulder and take her for a little walk.

When I visited last night, Omyim appeared restless, crying often and failing to find much happiness.

We had noticed that the instant she soils or wets herself, Omyim starts to cry.

This was all the information Aunty Eed needed. She took off the child’s pampers, and inspected her bottom. It was red, and sore.

‘No wonder she cries so much...her backside stings,’ she said.

I don’t blame Ball for failing to notice, and nor do I want him to blame himself.

‘Aunty Eed’s a pro,’ I explained. ‘I hope you feel relief, now that we know,’ I said.

Ball agreed, but looked miserable. When his daughter cries, he wears a stricken look, as if the child’s unhappiness is related to some error on his part.

‘New parents like to chastise themselves over nothing, and worry themselves sick for no reason,’ I told him, hoping to cheer his spirits. ‘You are not alone.’

Ball has changed since his daughter was born.

The main topic of conversation which Ball and Jay are eager to share with visitors – actually, mainly me - is their daughter.

They talk about how she slept (or failed to sleep) the night before, and how they coped. We are still getting to know this little body...her habits, her funny ways.

Omyim’s habit of rising at night has forced her parents to change the way they sleep.

‘We get most of our sleep from about 6am to midday, all three of us sleeping soundly together,’ said Ball.

This doting dad admits that the way he looks at life has changed, now that he is responsible for the life of a child.

'It's hard work being a dad, but I enjoy it,' he said dutifully, when I asked.

What he means is that being a parent has taken over virtually his every waking moment, but he knows it is something he has to do.

Jay is just as attentive. Together they make a great pair, communicating well, and tending minutely to their child's never-ending needs.

If Jay is holding Omyim, but she won’t settle, she will ask Ball to make up another batch of milk, or pour a bottle of water for Omyim.

Last night, when I visited, Ball’s niece had dropped in. The two toddlers, Fresh and Mew, also want attention. In a house full of children, we seldom get any peace.

Ball and Jay divide their time between me, the toddlers, and the demands of their daughter. If they feel the strain, they seldom show it, even in a cramped slum home.

I have spent the past week on leave, which means I have been able to visit the doting parents and baby Omyim every night.

After Ball’s mother complained about the child’s voracious appetite, I gave her some money to buy milk formula, and pampers.

‘Thank you, Mali,’ said Ball, so earnestly that I felt guilty for not offering help earlier.

‘Thank you so much. You have been so good to us.’

I have also given Jay some money so she can visit her aunt outside Bangkok, who is keen to see the child. Most of Jay’s family live in the North, and have yet to meet Omyim.

Ball and Jay have invited me to accompany them on their one-day trip.

We would look odd: teenage parents Ball and Jay, their baby daughter who is not even a month old, and a foreigner old enough to be their uncle– me.

I am actually a few months older than Ball’s mum – mother of four adult children, including Ball - but have no children of my own to show for my time on this earth.

Jay now listens to the stories I tell Ball, and seems happy to see me. However, I don’t like to see Ball or Jay chastising themselves whenever their daughter is unhappy.

But I know that as their friend, I can help them feel better again, so they can fight the parenthood battle another day.