Imagine coming home, soaked through to the skin by Bangkok’s “summer” rain, itching to get dry and shake off what remains of a long, working day. Imagine getting to your front door: the relief, the satisfaction, the release of tension – imagine all of that, and you’re with me up until I put the key in lock.

The key wouldn’t budge. I jiggled it, I pushed it, I pulled it, I shook it, I banged it… and nothing. It wouldn’t move. I was locked out. It had never happened before in this manner and so I knew something was up. Looking like an unloved Bangkok soi dog who had just been swimming in a swamp, I went to get my landlady to find out what was wrong with my door. I suspected it was her doing because she had had my keys all day on a promise to install a new sink for me. Little did I know what a disaster this would turn out to be.

I’m always reluctant to give my keys to my landlady; it’s not that I don’t trust her, but I know that if she goes into my room she will tidy things up and move things around, as only a Thai landlady would do. This was to be no exception, but before I would even have a chance to see the meddling, there was the small task of getting into my room. Mama, my landlady, tried in vain to open the door using the key. The neighbors came out of their rooms to inspect what the commotion was, but when they saw it was me they quickly lost interest. The resident handyman was summoned (it was him who had been given the task of making my sink) and he went to work with the same key-routine that Mama and myself had both tried to utilize. It didn’t work. His next bright idea was to climb outside and hack one of the sections of metal barring that acts as a window from its place. Much banging ensued and eventually he was in my room, with Mama and I on the other side of the door.

He tried the handle and it still wouldn’t open. Another 10 minutes of uneventful noise and shaking and the door finally opened. What a relief, I thought. With the door open, Bangkok’s finest handyman looked decidedly sheepish and his voice was quivering a little. He assured me that he would return the metal barring to my “window” the following day and he bid me farewell. It was then that I noticed my room was flooded. There was water covering the floor, everything had been moved to a different place, my bin had been emptied, my clothes moved – it looked like a war zone, especially with all the dirt that had found its way onto the floor after the sink had been installed. I looked in the bathroom and yes, there was indeed a sink, and a mirror, but it was not without fault. With the tap and water pipe steadily dripping, Mama got me a mop and apologized.

These are the exact moments living in Bangkok in which foreigners are supposed to stay calm and remember that if you’re not dead, you shouldn’t complain. I bit my tongue and told Mama that the catastrophe was no big deal. Though my sheets were ruined, many of my clothes drenched, my floor a paddling pool, and my bed covered in dirt (the handyman had climbed in through the window onto my bed) I made a few frustrated sighing noises and then got to work; just another day in Thailand.

For some reason, Mama had taken it upon herself to donate to me what I can only describe as Bangkok’s oldest, dirtiest desk, accompanied by a small bedside table that befits the same description. This is Thailand, I thought to myself. Minor catastrophes are to be expected, and us hapless foreigners can deal with them because of that very phrase. All this for the sake of a sink!

I shouldn’t complain. I pay less than the price of a Lomo-cam for my rent, but I didn’t ask for a sink. I hadn’t even pondered the fact, in almost two years of living in the same room, that I might need a sink. This wasn’t the first time I’d been frustrated with my landlady. Every few weeks the water stops working. I’ve woken up on many a work day before, stumbled into the shower, and turned it on only to be greeted by an empty space between me and the showerhead. Waiting expectantly for a minute or so does nothing to summon the waters, and these are usually the times when I have to wash using a trough of water downstairs. It’s all part of the Bangkok experience, I tell myself. Who needs running water anyway?

Whatever happens, my expectations for my living quarters are at an absolute minimum. Keep your hopes low and everything positive that happens will come as an enormous surprise; I live my life by that motto now.

When all was said and done, I couldn’t get angry with my landlady. She was only trying to help, but I have already made a point to say that I will not accept her offer to install a Jacuzzi. When I saw her the next morning she had a beaming smile and asked me if I was pleased with my new sink. “It’s great,” I said, “but please, don’t make anything else.” She laughed, I smiled, we had an understanding.

Techno’ tags: Flood, Disaster, Thailand, Bangkok, Living in Asia