The Arrival of the Politician:
Bo Farang Settlement, Bangkok

Bo Farang is a large man-made lake. It is 5.5 meters deep and could hold up to 78,000 cubic meters of water. It could easily gobble up 600 suburban track houses beneath its surface and still keep its glassy appearance intact. The lake was dug by the Siam Cement Group some 70 years ago. The $ 8.2 billion business group had also built row houses for its labor forces. One of those 70-year-old wooden row houses is still standing today; providing a dry and roomy shelter for the squatters.

The taxi – after crawling through heaps of garbage along the public drive – dumps me off at a shack near the old row house. The poor driver seems to be in such a hurry to leave the place that he almost misses collecting the fare. Saturday morning is not a good time to be in the slums – so it seems.

An attractive young woman with long black hair appears in front of the row house. She still has the look of a college student; going about in tight blue jeans, t-shirt, and canvas shoes.

“Hi! I’m Kaze. Please have some sodas,” she says while gesturing towards a round cement table in front of a small shop next to the row house.

Kaze is an architect who works with the squatters at Bo Farang for some time now; collecting data, organizing design workshops, and listening to gossips. She is a community architect – a rare breed of architects who actually work with people more than pencils.

A short fat man with a scar on his face comes out from the shop to offer me a Pepsi. He is now probably in his early 40s. He has an air of a man who is in charge; grabbing things from the shop at will.

“Want some chips too?” he offers in a soft-spoken voice.

“This is Mr. Pol, the community leader,” says Kaze. “He’s the Boss around here.”

“No, I’m just a shopkeeper. People just come to me for the latest gossips,” he says.

His shop is well-lit; it has electricity and several commercial freezers. Behind the usual assortments of goods and products – eggs, cosmetics, shampoo, tampons, condoms, and toothpaste – is a poorly lit shelf which contains life-saving essentials: beers, whiskey, and cigarettes. The shops is built out of concrete blocks and cement plaster; completed with large porcelain tile flooring and tinted windows designed for summer air-conditioning.

“Things are going well here. We have some good connection with the politicians in recent years,” the Boss whispers.

“Today, a member of the House (of Representatives) will be visiting us again,” says Kaze; glancing at her watch.

“But I hardly see any resident here today; the place seems deserted,” I observe.

“Ah! They all went to the temple to attend a ceremonial prayer,” says the Boss.

Except for the usual garbage mound sprawling along the frontal public drive, the entire place is being swept clean; not a single soul seems to be in their houses. The whole place has a theatrical atmosphere to it; as if it is preparing for a strange Kafkaesque play.

“So this politician has been helping your community for some time now?” I ask.

“Of course, he is like our brother. In the last election we all voted for him; so he better help us. I know his nature; he was in the army before, and I understand how his mind works. I was in the army too,” the Boss proudly explains.

“How does he help you guys?”

“He gave us money – and that’s important!” he adds. “To tell you the truth, who’d you prefer: an upright government that manages everything according to the laws, but gives you this much (shows two fingers). Or an easy going government that takes a large share of the pie but gives you this much (shows 10 fingers)?”

“The easy going one,” I say; sensing that the Boss is expecting only one correct answer.

“He is trying to get us to build a small community pavilion at the entryway - along with a gate and a sign,” says Kaze. She also explains to the Boss that I am a licensed architect from the US and could help him with the design.

“That sounds like an interesting idea,” he nods. “But I hate the US; it’s the one country that I don’t want to set foot on. I hate a bully – a country that bullies other countries,” the Boss says as he noisily slurps his Pepsi from a vintage glass bottle until it runs dry. Kaze’s Pepsi is still full; she barely touches it.

A large caravan of black Mercedes arrives. It comes to a stop some 50 meters short of the garbage mound. Its doors swing out in unison ejecting men in dark suits all over the driveway. The whole procedure is so automatic that it has a mechanical feel to it. But the last man climbs slowly out of a door with his own will. He wears a Polo sport shirt; it seems as if he is just taking a break from a game of golf. He seems relaxed; after all it is Saturday morning.

The Boss and some of his followers immediately run out to greet the man in the Polo shirt who seems to be enjoying the morning sun. Kaze and I are now the only people left sitting in the shade. I try to finish up my Pepsi out of courtesy and join the group; trying not to miss the show.

The group starts moving leisurely through narrow alleyways in a direction opposite to and away from the old row house. We can see large houses sprouting along the alleyways. The physical condition is quite good; it feels like the much prized Italian hilltowns; with white plaster walls, tile roofing, solid wood doors and window frames, and lines of colorful clothes drying in the sun. No one has ever asked if the Italians who built the hilltowns were “squatters” or not; perhaps there is no such concept as deed and land titles then. There were no architects; and people built their houses informally without a building permit. Yet, they had done it beautifully – just like the squatters here at Bo Farang.

We walk through more alleyways within the settlement and notice that many residents are still in their houses – hiding. Some houses are dead shut, but their air-conditioning is still running. The dogs are barking ferociously at this strange political procession that occurs several times a year, before and after the elections. The drama is unfolding in an unexpected way.

After some 30 minutes of walking and exchanging gratitude, a small old lady appears. She has a smooth and glowing white hair which contrasts sharply with her dark wrinkled face. She asks if the group could come and take a look at the old row house where she and 60 other families live. There is a sense of hesitation among the group. But a good politician cannot refuse such an asking especially if he is running on a populist platform. So we start strolling towards the old row house; like little school children summoned to see the school master.

We make a sharp turn in one of the small alleyways and the old wooden row house appears suddenly in an angle that no one has ever seen before. It is enormous; its long warping roof conjures up an image of an ancient shipwreck - a Titanic in the ocean of squatters. At 70-year-old, it is probably a little older than the old lady who is now leading the procession. The row house is a least 200 meters long; it has two exits at both front and back ends. We arrive at the front end of the row house. The entire row house is elevated on wooden stilts; so we have to climb a small ladder up to its main corridor.

The corridor runs through the middle of the entire row house; with living units on both sides. The floor of the corridor consists of wooden boards that were put together in such a way that - through the cracks and holes in the floor - one can see the garbage and the foul-smelling water below. It is not easy to walk on such creaking wood boards, so several residents come out to assist – pointing out which boards to walk on; which boards to avoid. Nobody hides in their room; the doors are wide open and one can see exactly who is doing what in their units. A few kids are running around in their room; being chased after by their slow-moving grandma. Some families are listening to battery powered radios – the morning news. The living units are quite large and well ventilated, but there is no electricity and no bathrooms inside this old row house.

“At night the corridor is pitch dark….. We need new flooring and a few electric lights so people don’t trip over and fall. We have already started a saving group and hopefully we could save enough to start improving the common area,” says the old lady as she leads the way through the long dark corridor.

Kaze jots down her ever words like a good disciple listening to the old prophet.

The politicians follow the old lady through the entire corridor; expressing sympathy and promises. They slowly makes an exit through the back end of the long corridor as the old lady stands guard at the door; thanking the them for coming. They head back to their black Mercedes; the German engines are already running; pre-cooling the interior cabins. The old lady shows no expression on her face as she slowly walks back to her unit.

“They’ve rip us off,” says a tall young man with a big black beard who seems to appear out of nowhere. “After the last election, the Boss didn’t pay us a nothin’; even for those who’d voted for his political party; the money only goes to his group of followers,” he says; holding a long wooden broom over his shoulder.

“That’s too bad,” I say; keeping an eye on the exit door.

“The old lady has been asking for improvement all her life and look what we’ve here – a rat hole. They all have big detached houses with white plastered walls and air-conditioning, but we’ve got this shipwreck to live in; no electricity - not even toilets,” the man continues as he starts sweeping the floor.

“We should ALL start a saving group then; so that there would be a larger pool of money to work with,” Kaze interjects.

“The Boss and his people wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with it; they just like it the way it is now. They want no change; after all, the Siam Cement Group is not going to evict us any time soon,” he says.

“When was the last time you’ve talk to the Boss?” I ask.

“I don’t talk to him. The old lady does; and that was 6 months ago. He said that the money had already been spent and there was nothin’ left for us. That’s why we start our own saving group because no feakin’ politician would give a shit ‘bout us,” he sighs.

We walk silently together towards the exit. Kaze thanks him at the door for his cordial reception. The blinding afternoon sun hit us squarely in the faces as we walk out of the dark corridor into the open field; a dark blue lake is being placed right in front our feet like a giant carpet.

The Community Organization Development Institute (CODI) is now in the process of negotiating with the Siam Cement Group for the possibility of having a Land Sharing development; where by the squatters would be allowed to legally lease out their land – provide that they leave some space for the Cement Group to do future commercial development. The Siam Cement Group has technically agrees with the proposal so far. They are now reviewing architectural plans with CODI’s architects and the squatters. The row house residents are happy with any proposal and improvement to their lot, but other residents – with better housing conditions - are still somewhat hesitant. At present – as of December 2008 - the terms of lease for the squatters are still being worked out. There are an estimate total of 325 households in the entire settlement. Of these, 205 households have already belonged to some form of saving groups; there are 3 saving groups in total.