If you think these are a string of lucky numbers, it’s not. Runner #3560 (that’s me), out of 11,000 others, what i termed “motivateds”, who decided that there is nothing better than getting up at 6am for a 15km run. Did i ever think in my life that I would be able to run a race? Never. Did i think that if i did run a race, that i could pull a 15 click run for my first virgin run? Also never. So, 24 May 2009 is a special day. Definitely. At a timing that I am glad to say, I am not totally embarressed about too 1:53:32. 

Me and Eunice Hi-5 eachother at the finish line!

Numbers aside, there is nothing more fun than the feeling of doing the impossible. While the last few months of my life have been a consistent reminder of “Pauline doesn’t have” and even worst, “No, Pauline doesn’t get”, it’s great to know that there are some things where democracy still persists and input becomes output, very simply. No excuses about external market factors, no laments about “I should have done things differently” and best of all, no b.s having to deal with someone elses’ tantrums and moods. It’s all on you (or me, in this case).

I learnt a couple of things today. That the body is pretty resilient. 3 kilometers in, i literally run into a branch. Not so glamourous. But not serious enough to get outted of the race. I persist. 8km in, I am seriously regretting not bringing my ipod because there is this T-pain track that is absolutely running-licious. Somewhere along the 11km mark, I feel my shoulders aching. Aiks. The mind is bored but can be easily trained to just focus on hardbodies on the running track. Nice. That despite the heat and the dry throat and the heavy legs, one can keep going. Much like an analogy for life. There was even a couple that insisted on running holding hands. 

Branched, but not benched :)

Past the initial fanfare of the crowd and the high school cheerleaders who had to fulfill school credits by performing forced volunteer duties, the final bits of the race are pretty silent. It’s just humans, sweat and bodies persisting. There is a silent shuffle of feet as shoes hit the pavement and heavy breathing. It’s all very insular i suppose. There is a silent nod when someone overtakes. Past the 10km mark, the runners are as one, strangers in real life but united in a common cause. There is some camaraderie as people swap stories and ask each other about their run times. Much congratulations are sent around. 

I am excited to see the 13km mark and a big sign that shouts out “one more mile”. This is great! I am waaaayyy ahead of my timing, except…I don’t recall the finish line being anywhere even close to where i am. It is pure providence that i decide to stop at the water station because it wasn’t 2km to the finish line and i would seriously died of dehydration. It was more like 5km. Somone obviously couldnt count and put up the signboards wrongly. Bleah…still, pyschologically, it’s always better to know you are 2km from the finish line than not.

On y va!

Even better is to have your best friends take you out for a stinky brunch after. Audrey is absolutely distraught about her fine leather seats in her bmw smelling like dog. i would be too.

a fine treat

where is the food?

Running IS the new democracy. It doesn’t matter if you are short, or thin or plump, it’s about getting a pair of good shoes and just drilling the mental mind to accept pain, fatigue and absolute satisfaction. I salute everyone that did it! I am totally addicted and can’t wait to train up for my next half-marathon (at a better timing). The time has come and all those painful sessions of boot camp has paid off!

Run with me!!

Happy, happy finisher

From the industrial setting of Chonburi province to the local flavor of Bang San beach, Lea drags me out to Pattaya for a night out on the town. Again, I speak of divine intervention. Foreign city, no particular agenda, I meet Lea, who has spent the last three years living in Cambodia, with some of the craziest stories about sleaze, sex, corruption and the high life. I believe the word is probably Serendipity that we meet.

That's all I need to know...Sexy Friendly Girls....

Lea comments that if you want to make money, Pattaya is the place to be, screw Bangkok. It’s fast cash and dirty money. From the neon-lit strip malls, that house all sorts of brands from Starbucks to Mango, to the dingy back alley lanes that feature thuggish brutes playing open-air billards, Pattaya is a electro-clash mix of lights, dirt, sex and a trying sophistication. Kinda of when you are 15 years old and trying to act all adult, wearing these poorly fitted clothes, that’s Pattaya for you. Ill-fitting, poorly formed.

But what one cannot get over is the sense of desperation. The numerous white men with their Thai girls in tow. At the classy malls, these are settled Europeans who now speak fluent Thai, with Thai wife and kid in tow. On Walking Street, the epitome of sleaze and what Nat calls – “sin city”, the men are walking around grabbing women’s asses. Girls or ladyboys walk around in nothing but their lingerie. Nat laughs and says, ‘Where else in the world can you see people walking around in their underwear!?!?!?!” It’s an oddball scene. Army and sailor sorts float around, dragging skinny thai girls that don’t look older than 16 years old. There is awkward dancing and some body grabbing. Every club has sad looking women sitting out front, some are talking to weird white men, some are doing a sleepy form of bartop dancing. All this set against young children running around at 2am, selling neon glo-sticks and breakdancing in the streets. But what I don’t get – are the people selling roses. What would possess you to sell roses on a street where people go to pick up hookers? I mean, would you ever buy a rose for a hooker? Or toys for that matter? Would you blow your last pile of hard-earned cash buying a Doraemon? heh.

someone needs to figure out their customer segments...seriously

Standing cool...amongst tigers...

We swap sleaze stories and Nat laments how she constantly gets asked,” How much for short time?” Wow, the economic recession has really hit hard. She is upset that it’s almost impossible to be taken seriously in Pattaya and have a normal job. I completely understand. Pattaya attracts the very sort of human that is not interested in conversation, a high life, sophistication or personality. It’s highly transactional, it’s highly transient – one has to believe that not all these men act like jerks back in their home country. Lea hugs Nat in the middle of the streets, only to feel a huge hand grab her ass cheek. Such is the spirit of Pattaya. We all come here to behave badly. The next person who tells me they are spending the weekend in Pattaya will be treated with grave suspicion for sure.

One thing’s for sure, we are the only group of girls walking around. Everyone else is simply…coupled or waiting to hook up. There is something surreal about watching these girls flaunt their siliconed chest and staring lasciviously at these bald, white boys. It’s not just mating, it’s hunting. There is tons of gawking happening. Girls are huddling smiling at prospective men, men are amazed at all this attention and constant stream of girls walking up to them with gentle caresses, body pressed against hips. Pretty lurid. We laugh through it all, as girls with brave hearts do.

And to survive Pattaya in a well-adjusted manner does require a brave heart. Hiaks…the only way to get through it in one piece is to first get drunk at an Ice Bar. Like the decadence of any party town, the Ice Bar is a thai oddity, partying a la Finland or Sweden where the bar, the seats, the cups even are made of ice. I never really thought I would have to don a winter parka to head out drinking. But never say no to unlimited drinks! Nat is our bartender of choice and we get a stable stream of vodka shots. Aiaks!

if you ever wanted a mix of bed supperclub in an ice environment...you got it.

ice ice baby

chug chug chug

I leave Pattaya and it is now 5am. It’s far too late and my mind is tired, in so many ways. There is a niggling sense of lost and not being sure what I had just experienced. Weird. Kinda like being hit by a truck but wondering what just happened. Maybe it’s coming face to face with human depravity. It can leave a bitter taste now that we have met and shook hands.

goodnight and goodbye

You know your life is kinda topsy turvy, possessing little more than a semblance of structure when after one random phone call, two even more random discussions that I find myself on a flight to Thailand to visit a chicken farm. A distressed chicken farm no less. For those lesser beings that don’t know any better (like me…), the world of chicken farming is extremely high-tech. Chickens are not kept in high-rise cages, that is so 1970s. Some millions of eggs are brought to a hatchery, incubated and chicks are then placed into longhouses to freely run around for 6 weeks, before heading into the slaughterhouse. It’s a free buffet meal “All you can eat” for 6 weeks. Lights are kept on for as long as 24 hours a day to encourage the chickens to keep eating. Sounds like my life! Sounds like a good life too. Feeding is completely mechanical, and water pipes are dropped down to varying heights to allow the chickens to suck water nipples. It’s all very surreal.

Sunset along Bang San Beach with some really fresh seafood

None as surreal as the further processing of chicken. I stand around a cold room (in my biological warfare-ready suit and balaclava), watching an entire assembly line of professional chicken cutters fillet breast meat into nice squares to make chicken katsu pieces for the Japanese market. The chicken pieces are weighed, checked for consistency, floured, dipped into egg, floured, breaded and checked again, before it all moves along the assembly line and dropped into oil and fried. And fried again.

Life with a chicken company is no joke. Due to health and safety reasons, many of the staff live on-site. Housing is provided. Imagine this is the extent of your life. Chopping chicken, working at a factory hours from nowhere, and well, having to wash your hands 36 times a day. I find out that some 20% of the staff are married to each other. Seriously, that’s real company pride. And kinda cultish. That of the poulet cult. That’s pretty mad. And scary…but I already said that.

This is when I realize, I am such a big city girl. The idea of not having options around food, restaurants (I ate at the same restaurant everyday) and with no starbucks in sight, is kinda scary.

But hey, moo moo and I are happy because we manage to book ourselves into the only 5-star hotel on Bang San beach (which is nowhere near the chicken factory), but I can’t complain. Making financial models by the beach is pretty fun. And moo moo gets to pose out.

Moo moo relaxing while i work!

This is the million dollar shot – I actually had 17 varieties of fried chicken for lunch. Yes…17!!! i definitely have sworn off KFC for life!

Talk about having a one-dimensional lunch menu

If you want to invest in the chicken business, you got to get serious about your chicken. The factory turns out more than 500 chicken recipes, across the entire steam, roasted and fried spectrum. Behind this all – an entire infrastructure of R&D and science that goes into your crappy 7-11 Taquitos. Madness.

The thing about learning how one’s food gets made is that one comes to realization on the ins and outs, and in particular, the issues on death and killing one’s meat for food. That the nice neat cuts of meat at Whole Foods doesnt miraculously appear as such, that some Thai person stood around on a long assembly line, cutting, cleaning and weighing, in a room that smelt less than nice. makes on almost want to turn vegan.

At least, I now know more about something, which can’t be said about the other facets of my life