Brown Gates in Bangkok

Children have sharper vision than adults. Where a grown-up might see a scattering of dated buildings, some puddles, and stairs that must be traversed to reach a destination, children will recognize great potential for adventure and exploration.

The mission home in Bangkok, where our family stayed overnight any time we were in transit to Chiangmai in the north or to Pattaya for yearly conference, offered a paradise through that childhood lens. Small provisions had been made for families with young children: a cupboard of books here, some aged playground equipment over in that corner of the lawn. And while we four kids, reunited with our age mates at this central headquarters, made happy use of those things, we knew there was more—much more—to see and do. The place was a feast of sensory experience, pleasant associations, and discoveries that added to the mystique.

It started with the friendly old brown metal gates in the wall, in front of which we’d find ourselves standing with our luggage after a ride in a Tuk Tuk or a taxi. Before the gates opened with a scraping of the bolt on the rough cement driveway, we could look to the neighbor’s high wall on our right and see whether that ill-tempered monkey, Pepsi, was perched on his lookout. We’d heard that he had once swooped down and pulled the hair of one of the family of caretakers at the mission home, who had been walking down the side street minding her own business.

Once inside the small compound, surveying the familiar faces of those who would be our companions this time around, we were left to play while my parents presumably took care of hauling the luggage to our room. What to do first? There were so many choices.

Right in front of the gate, we could climb two smooth white marble stairs and find ourselves on a lawn that stretched the width of the property. And we could go crazy on that rectangle of grass, running and yelling with our friends. The cluster of playground equipment to one side of this yard offered a little metal slide, and if I remember right, a small teeter-totter/merry-go-round hybrid. Life was good. But that wasn’t all.

The main house, a hulking two-story building of concrete, had unusual design features that were most attractive for hide-and-go-seek or really any invented game you had in mind. These nooks were interesting even just to explore, too. For instance, the side of the building nearest the lawn had large partitions extending from the wall at regular intervals. Nestled in the corner of one of these, you could take shelter from—well, anything. It was satisfying to run my fingers over the small, smooth tiles decorating the broad sides of each of these wings.

Even better, the front porch was supported by a series of narrow metal posts, all painted light green, and one of our favorite pastimes was scrambling up those posts and sliding down, our bare feet, arms, and legs providing all the necessary traction.

As if those architectural attractions weren’t enough, the porch was surrounded by a brick ledge, creating a bench of sorts where we could sit with peers and play. It was always intriguing to see what our friends had packed and were willing to share—would it be Old Maid this time, or markers and a Fun Pad that was “packed with things to do?”

We could walk along the ledge, too, and there was a similar low wall enclosing a spacious side porch, but one had to be careful of the drop-off onto the driveway or graveled flowerbed below. Our parents didn’t rush to stop us from this balancing act—they seemed relatively unconcerned—but I don’t recall any small child getting hurt. (It turns out that we really weren’t supposed to be shimmying up the pillars, but we found it hard to break the habit.)

The men of the house, at times joined by my dad and other fathers, were often busy in a garage at the end of the driveway, far to the left of the gate. As the greasy guys worked under cars, they lay on their backs on a flat rolling cart, a device I kept my eye on in hopes that one day, we’d be allowed to play on it.

During the sultry daylight hours, we heard the nasal calls of the street vendor, unintelligible to me but always with the same register and rhythm. Our flip-flops smacked against our heels, keeping time as our games had us navigating around the other side of the big house, along the row of guest rooms in an outbuilding fronted by a long veranda and shaded by shampoo fruit trees. Standing in front of our room, we would look up at the clusters of the pink, bell-shaped edibles, sometimes being treated to them as a sweet snack.

Once we’d trooped off the other end of the veranda, we were ready to experiment at the laundry area, with its wringer washers and standing puddles. One of the children had discovered that if you picked a certain weed with tiny, narrow pods, you could drop the pods in one of the many small puddles and watch them explode open, one by one. Or, if we’d gotten permission to buy a “pop,” we could stop by a small, brown kitchen between the row of rooms and the big house. Behind a light wooden door, the kitchen, clean and warm-smelling, offered a table and a fridge where we could indulge the rare privilege of selecting a soft drink.

When we’d had enough of being outdoors, the inside of the mission home held even more of the unexpected than did the outside. But the smells, sights, and sounds we loved in the big house are enough for their own post.