5:15 AM, Chiang Mai

The coffee stand has just opened. Or more precisely, the coffee seller has just waked up from his slumber. The pace is rather slow and the seller still needs to fold back the adjustable wooden bench which serves as his bed, his chair, his desk, his lounge, and his living room. A small mirror hangs from the top of the coffee stand where he brushes his teeth. He sees us coming from the mirror and – without turning his head - exclaims “Early birds!”

“It’s ok, we can wait,” says ‘Blitz’ the guitarist.

The coffee seller makes a slight nod of appreciation and resumes his daily ritual. He shaves and washes his face leisurely until 5:30 AM - when an adjacent noodle shop rolls up its metal gate – so that he could promptly go in and use their bathroom. I order several pieces of Chinese fried bread from the noodle shop to go with our coffee.

“You come here every morning?” I ask.

“Pretty much. This is my last stop before going home for a sleep,” says the guitarist.

The coffee seller carefully positions his coffee making gears on the coffee stand. A large reusable coffee filter – after years of stretching – starts to assume the shape of an elongated woman’s breast. It has a long wooden handle connected to it so that one could joggle it back and forth without coming into contact with the hot liquid. The mixture of freshly grounded coffee beans and hot water is poured into a small tin cup so that it could be mixed with sweeten condense milk. The final mixture is then poured into a clear Espresso glass; ready to be served.

It is now 5:40 AM. The regulars are starting to arrive; stationing themselves at their favorite tables. It is still the early shift. Most patrons who come at this hour usually work in the transportation and service industries - truck drivers, construction workers, delivery men, policemen, and whores. We also have the older retired people who live around the area; they tend to get up earlier and earlier as their years progressed. They, too, grab their favorite seats among the rusted tin tables. A tall thin man with a full head of white hair – probably in his 70s - appears from behind the old city wall. He is fully dressed up, even at this early hours.

“Here comes uncle Tongkum, the chairman of the old wall commune,” says the guitarist.

Uncle Tongkum starts greeting the regulars; going from table to table as he walks towards the coffee stand.

“So who is this new face here,” he smiles, looking at me.

“He is an architect from the States, just visiting,” says the guitarist.

“A cup of coffee please,” uncle Tongkum says to the seller.

He turns back to me and says “We are having an opening party today. Just build a new house in this old wall community.”

“So the whole community help build this new house together?” I ask

“No, not the whole community; it is supposed to be a prototype for the future. You know, in case we need to move away from the old city wall.”

“Who came up with this prototype, the folks in the community?”

“Yeah, we also work with CODI (The Community Development Organization Institute) on the prototype; they have their architects and engineers helping us with the design, you know.”

“They even get the building permit for us,” he adds.

“Wait, but why do you guys need to move away from the city wall in the first place?”

“It’s the Fine Art Department’s call. The wall is a historic artifact, I suppose, so that’s why they don’t want us near it.”

“That seems like a very Western conception of history,” interjects the guitarist. “Today’s action will be tomorrow’s history. You guys are part of tomorrow’s history; and if they evict you, how can there be a genuine history of tomorrow. We’ll be left with a long stretch of perfectly preserved walls, shiny brochures, and several kids with balloons - another Disneyland!”

We all laugh.

“In the US, many communities of colors faced similar issue with the Historic Preservation Department,” I say with a mouthful of Chinese bread. “In Chinatown, for instance, the city planners – mostly white folks – wanted to preserve the fabric of 4 story building, the noodle shops, the classical Chinese theaters, small coffee stands, and the colorful low-rise pagoda-looking buildings. They wanted Chinatown to look Chinese! But the folks who actually live there – the Chinese - wanted modern colleges for their kids, tall buildings if necessary, movie theaters, basketball courts, high-tech jobs, western doctors, and Starbucks.”

“The coffee is ready,” shouts the seller.

“I think we have to ask: History? Whose history? For whom?” says the guitarist.

“Well, the Fine Art Department just wants us to move down from the wall, they don’t mind us staying near and around the wall,” explains uncle Tongkum. “I think we can make some adjustment ourselves to accommodate them. For those houses that were built right on the wall – and they are in the hundreds – we may need to ask CODI for help on financing the relocation.”

“Are you guys being relocated elsewhere?” I ask

“No, we have to stay here. Most of our jobs are here at the market, you know. Years ago it was much harder for us to earn a living, but after the pets and plants market moved here, we could keep ourselves busy,” explains uncle Tongkum.

“What about the city government, what’s their role in this?” I ask.

“Wow! You are seriously interviewing me, young man,” says uncle Tongkum.

“You’re not the first one to interview uncle Tongkum. Last week 3 newspaper reporters came to interview him at this coffee stand too,” says the guitarist.

“The Mayor is very good in assisting us. I got a feeling that she values the informal sector as much as the formal economic sector,” says uncle Tongkum.

“In this global financial crisis, any smart government would have to tap into the wealth of the informal sector – it’s inevitable,” I observe.

“She’s coming to the opening party today; you can talk to her if you could still keep your eyes open then,” says the guitarist.

“So the new house is yours,” I ask.

“Yes, at first I don’t want to move into it; it’s too luxurious for me. I like simple things, but the people here forced me to,” uncle Tongkum laughs.

The guitarist looks perplexed: “But if everyone does the same and rebuild there houses legally – 3 meters – away from the wall then….”

“It’s 1.5 meters from the wall; we’re pushing for that,” interrupted uncle Tongkum.

“Yeah, if everyone does that, they will have a legal address just like you, are they not?” ask the guitarist.

“Yes, they will. Including some current ‘renters’ too,” says uncle Tongkum.

“What do you mean by ‘renters’?” I ask.

“There’re at least 10 houses that were rented out to other people. The ‘landlords’ live elsewhere. We’re not giving the new legal address to those ‘landlords’; it will be the actual people who are living here that will have their names ingrained to the new legal addresses,” says uncle Tongkum.

“That’s interesting. So the capitalist class exists even in the slums,” I observe.

“Especially in the slums! Even the so-called non-renters - the squatters - pay rent to the Treasury Department; it’s their land, you know.” says uncle Tongkum.

“Wait a minute, so the land doesn’t belong to the Fine Art Department?” I ask.

“No, the land belongs to the Treasury Department; but the Fine Art Department (F.A.D.) manages it. They have the final say on who stays and who goes,” explains uncle Tongkum.

“How much are the folks paying?”

“1 baht per square wa (0.25 baht per square meter),” says uncle Tongkum.

“So why build just one house?” I ask

“The folks here are not so sure, at first, if the Treasury Department is coming up with some sort of scheme – in collaboration with the F.A.D. – to evict them. You know, luring them into building new houses elsewhere. So our slum association decided to build one prototype for all the folks to see so that they can put their fear to rest. We’re building the new houses right here in the same place,” says uncle Tongkum as he raises his hand.

The sun is rising; the horizon is saturated with a bright orange hue.

“I hope the opening ceremony goes well today,” says uncle Tongkum; his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I’m getting old, you know, the younger people will soon have to take care of themselves.”

“How many people live here in this commune?” I ask.

“About 300 households,” says uncle Tongkum without blinking. “There are many more people in other communities who are also living on the old city wall. In fact, the entire historic district is home to many of us. We’ve lived here for over 30 years; long before the area was even declared ‘historic.’ So today we’re starting over again – we now have at least one house with a legal address. This opening celebration is just the beginning.”