Shades of the Banyan Tree
Klong Toey Seaport, Lot 7-12

Ficus benghalensis - the Banyan tree – grows in a damp place. It usually starts its life as a fig; growing on a host tree, eventually supplanting it with its own monstrosity. With a horrifying life span of several thousands years, the tree and its aerial prop roots could cover several hectare of land. Local folklores tell of how the demons and spirits like to dwell in the shades of the Banyan; how it could spell doom for the family who has one such tree near their house. It's a harbinger of death.

Under its shade, one can see a few dilapidated shacks. Colorful clothes and handkerchiefs wrap around its main trunk; a small wooden Spirit House could be seen standing next to a long and lonely face of a thin man. His eyes have been watching me for some time now, but his stooping body camouflages him well with the Banyan roots. Now he looks away towards the walkway which is paved with discarded plastic bags and glass bottles.

Lines of hanging clothes and blue jeans overlook the pathway. Two dogs glance at me indifferently as they walk pass a wooden sign which reads: 7 -12. It is overgrown with tall grasses so that one can only see the number 12. The thin man’s body remains as still as a log; trying not to make any unnecessary expenditure of energy. He finally lifts his finger – as he senses that I am getting a bit too close for him to remain silent - and points to an area overgrown with grass near a pile of lumber.

“We’ve got 3 fires in 2006 and one person was burned to death right here on this spot,” he says with a sly grin. A few more people slowly emerge from their caves of Banyan roots to take a look at their new visitor. It’s the usual ritual whenever a stranger arrives on the site.

He leads me to a small pavilion right above a heap of garbage and offers me a glass of water. I tell him that I am not from the Port Authority, and he starts to become more relaxed.

“Most of us here work as day laborers; hired by the Port Authority of Klong Toey,” says the thin man as he slurps his water with a straw. “We get by, you know, from day to day. In the early morning – like today – you can see people lining up for work at the Port; it’s a usual sight.”

He starts talking about how the privatization of state owned industries – including the seaports – had resulted in new redevelopment plans; and the land that was owned by the Port Authority was leased out to private investors.

“The Port Authority became a Limited Company in 2000,” he says.

In 2003, there were plans to raze the entire Klong Toey bazaar so that a shopping center could be built there. In May 2008, the emirate’s mega investor – Dubai World – signed an MOU with the Thai government to do a study on redeveloping the seaports. The thin man makes an overly enthusiastic speech; imitating the tone of a typical radio announcement by the Public Relation Department:

“The strategy will enable Thailand to develop with greater efficiency new industrial zones and to cope with increasing international and regional trade...This will enhance Thailand’s competitiveness in the long run.”

I can hear a sudden burst of laughter from the folks who were hiding and listening to our conversation among the Banyan roots. It is as if the forest of Banyan itself is laughing. For the common folks, the privatization of state owned industries was nothing but a way to hike up the prices. When the Petroleum Authority of Thailand was privatized, the oil and gas prices went up; when there were news of the impending privatization of the Electric Generating Authority of Thailand, people guarded their wallets in suspense. The people here have not been to universities, and are not interested in the complex graphs and curves; the derivatives and integration of weird symbols. But they understand the economic fundamentals - the bottom line.

“So we’re just something that stands in the way of their lucrative development,” says the thin man. “For them, our community is just like an object – like a rock that could be placed here and there.”

“How many people actually live here? How many households?”

“There’re 487 households here. Years ago the Port had also chosen a few hundred people to join their pilot project: the Sang San Pattana cooperative.”

“What about the rest of the people?”

“You are looking at one of them! Like me, the rest are just ghosts; refusing to leave; wandering about among the roots of the Banyan. But I’m OK with it, you know. Some people are too attached to things. Some people have been working all their lives so that they could have security and permanence, but they end up miserably hopeless. Look at the Americans now, they’ve lost everything. All they’ve left is the defense industry and the auto industry.”

“But the auto industry is now going to Washington to beg for cash; so does Larry Flint, another successful American industrialist,” I say.

“Who is Larry Flint, his name sounds so familiar. He’s one of the Senators right?” asks the thin man enthusiastically.

“No he isn’t. But yes, he’s just like a Senator” I say; trying to put the subject to rest.

A yellow mechanical arm of the Komatsu excavator makes its appearance just above a small tree; it is probably some 400 meters away from us. The giant lizard has already descended on a nearby site; its diesel engine is gulping oil as it crawls.

“The Port owns a land that used to be a container depot you know; so now they’re saying that we could move and officially lease their land there. But only 98 households are eligible though.”

“How much will they have to pay?”

“They will be paying 1.25 baht per square meter on a monthly basis; and they will be using their own saving to build the new houses. Nobody wants to take any more loans; they want no more debt, you know.”

“So the Port doesn’t provide housing for their workers?” I interject.

“Well, we’re technically not their workers, you know. We’re just day laborers. A day laborer is not a worker or a man or a husband or even a drunkard – a day laborer is an identity in itself. And when you become one, you stop being anything else.”

“I’ve heard that a few of the people here were living at the Wacharapol community housing before?”

“Yes, the government had agreed to provide us with housing in the suburb; it didn’t work out though. It was too far from our jobs; and most of us work at the port, you know. So most of the people moved back here again; it’s closer to the job site and after all, we’re used to it here. Been livin’ here for over 20 years, you know.”

“It’s a large area,” I observe.

“45 Rai (7.2 hectares),” he says.

Several small puppies are playing and rolling in heaps of discarded plastic bags; their mother looks on indifferently. Two children are washing glass bottles so that they could be resold to the soda company.

“Have you been to the new site?” he asks. *

“No, where is it?”

“Next to the old pawnshop; I’ll take you there. Right now they’ve already cleared out the depot. You can see a few 1-story houses propping up on the lot. They are so small. But with their meager saving, that’s all they can afford. Trying to live a life according to rules and regulations is expensive, you know. That’s what I’ve learned,” says the thin man.

He slides a cigarette from the pack and slowly lifts himself up from the wooden platform. We exit the pavilion and walk towards the front entry. The thin man seems more energetic than usual; there is a great sense of anticipation. He lights his cigarette as we walk.

The path to the new settlement can be reach by walking along the highway’s underpass. The underpass – like any other types of promenade – has coffee shops, rest area, and recreational centers. We see truck stops; soccer fields, and many spaces that could rightly be called “lounges”. There are several furniture woodshops that make profits by turning old shipping crates into high-end furniture; they sell them on the sidewalk near the underpass.

The thin man starts to look nervous. He is sweating profusely as we walk; even under the shade of the underpass.


“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It’s nothing.”

The thin man starts to look pale and restless; and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Most people will be living in 2-story row houses,” he says. “But those who have doubts about the saving group didn’t join in initially. They’re the ones who cannot afford the 2-story houses; they came late and they could barely save enough for the 1-story houses.”

“So the 98 people who are eligible for the new housing are the member of the community saving group?” I ask.

“Yeah, they’re the chosen ones.”

We now arrive at a large open space between two 5 story flats.

“The new settlement,” the thin man whispers.

The site is clearly demarcated with lots and pathways. A few prefabricated steel structures can be seen on the site. They are the 1- story houses. The rest of the space is still empty; but there is a majestic feel to such emptiness.

“These people – like me - have worked hard all their life. But what I don’t understand is their persistence; their desire to conform and be a part of a larger society. They insisted on living, no matter how bad things are – like the Banyan tree here at our place. I cannot do that. I can never do that!”

The thin man glances slowly across the horizon; his eyes are watery.

* The Community Organization Development Institute (CODI) provides 20,000 baht to each of the 98 families who are moving to the new site. In addition, CODI also provides free architectural and design advises to the families, including engineering services and building permits.