Bangkok

Thailand

March 29. 2025

Saturday morning

Hello,

I am looking west through the glass doors to my balcony.  The balcony provides a sweeping view of a large segment of downtown Bangkok. In the foreground on the street below, several private residences sit quietly.

To my right is the Saen Saeb Canal. The water is as flat as glass. The morning commuter boat traffic has not yet begun. In the distance the multi-laned double decker expressway runs north to south.  It’s a normal Saturday morning. Traffic on the weekend is sparse.  In the distance, beyond the highway, and scattered from north to south and east to west, a dozen skyscrapers stand tall, very tall in the dusty air.

This morning may appear normal.   It’s not.

Yesterday a 7.7 magnitude earthquake struck In Mandalay, Myanmar, 830 miles from Bangkok. A modern metropolitan area of seven, eight, nine million, Bangkok is hit by an earthquake 830 miles away.  (For some perspective, the distance from New York City to Chicago is 791 miles.  The distance from London to Prague is 793 miles.)

Yesterday Friday March 28 at 06:17 GMT – 13:17 or 1:17 pm local time, Bangkok begins to shake!  Office buildings begin to shake. Shopping malls begin to shake.  The modern elevated subway cars begin to shake and bang and bang and bang against the station platforms.

At 1:17 pm on the ninth floor of a 21-floor apartment building, my apartment begins to shake.

I am sitting in a chair sorting through old documents. The floor is undulating. The walls have waves. Wild is the oscillation of the lighting fixtures. “Is this The End?  I’m going to die here.”  How in the world do solid cement walls and ceramic tiles laid on a solid cement floor come alive and move like watery waves at the seashore?

 At any moment I expect the ceiling to crash down on my head. 

I dare not stand. The waves will topple me.  For a moment I think about crawling.

I make a plan.

The tremors stop in about a minute.  I stand.  I walk to my desk.  I gather up my passport, wallet, travel billfold, password notebook, hidden cash, two expensive wristwatches, reading glasses, a banana.  I dump them all in an impromptu “Go Bag.”  I pick up a pair of shoes and my hiking stick.  In my stocking feet I walk down the nine flights of stairs to the lobby.  And the street!

The street is already filled with a few of the Thai uniformed nursing staff and administration personnel from Bumrungrad International Hospital nearby. Everyone is calm and chatting away or on phones.  Some take photos.  (I decide that at this moment taking photos would be intrusive.)

As a foreigner I am hardly alone!  A remarkable group gathers.    Permanent residents from my condominium building as well as temporary residents who seek medical help at the hospital form a United Nations.  United today.  So many Nations.  I assume my normal demeanor as a friendly and appreciative long-term local expat.

I also take on my role as “ambassador” from America.  Today I mingle with a confused and distressed crowd.  Folks from Vietnam. Cambodia. Myanmar. Philippines. China. Russia. Pakistan. Belgium. Germany.  Sudan. Tanzania. Kenya. Uganda. Ethiopia.   

I can usually identify the Ethiopians by listening to their speech with its occasional high-pitched vowels.  With a mixture of concern tempered by a bit of humor, one woman from Addis Ababa exclaims, “I came here for medical treatment.  Not to die.”

By about 4 pm the crowd disperses.  I return to my apartment.  At 8:00 pm a neighbor knocks on my door. There are warnings of aftershocks.  Once again, I grab my Go Bag and head to the street.   I spend the next two hours chatting with a small group of Thai neighbors.  At 11 pm I retire to my room.  I sleep through the night.

This morning I still feel shaky.  I look down at the tiles on the floor.  Nothing.  Normal.  Flat.

It’s just me.  Shaken.

Jan

PS I know I am lucky.  Others, in Bangkok, and the gentle folks of Mandalay, not so much.  So sad.