THE GREAT GRENG JAI GRIPE

For all their faults, and if you don't factor in the politicians, Thais really are a lovely group of people.

Forget about that occasional irritating civil servant bound by draconian laws, or the lobotomic department store staff with the winsome "no have" smile - the average Thai is a lot more polite than you or me.

I put this down to the Thai culture, Buddhism, a hot climate and abundant natural resources. But as anybody who's hit 40 already knows, nothing is permanent and things have a habit of falling apart.

In Thailand, natural resources are dwindling, the weather is getting hotter and monks are wearing make-up while lip-synching to I Will Survive.

Yet for all the problems Thailand may be facing, the Thais still have one thing over us. It's something they are extremely proud of; it even makes them feel a little superior, bless their hearts.

They have greng jai, and we don't. Or so they say.

Greng jai is a feeling of not wanting to put another person out, or hurt another person's feelings. I mean, it's a feeling of consideration for others.

It's a feeling of wanting to make the other person feel good. It's, it's ...

See, dear reader? As I try to explain this feeling, I am helplessly sucked into the quicksand of English vocabulary. The closest word to it is "consideration", but even that seems a little flaccid - another dreaded adjective for anybody who's hit 40.

I'm not complaining. I once wrote an entire book entitled What Does Greng Jai Mean in English? which sold nearly 100,000 copies. It paid off a significant part of my mortgage as well as more than a few bottles of Saeng Thip back in the good old days when I had a death wish and could actually drink Thai whiskey.

It's a word that is firmly embedded in the hearts and language of Thais, which leads to a rather poignant delusion suffered by Thais - that nobody else in the world is capable of feeling greng jai. Hence the irritating question: Do westerners feel greng jai?

Of course we do, but don't be deceived by Thai propaganda. Greng jai is a nice thing, but it is also a major hindrance to progress in this country. Because, like everything in life, it is not simply black and white. Greng jai turns you into a caring, thoughtful human being - it can also transform you into a directionless jellyfish.

I used to play squash with a colleague whose nickname was Eddie from Hell. Oh all right, it was just Eddie; I was responsible for the rest. Eddie from Hell and I played squash every Thursday morning. One Wednesday I was sitting at my desk and saw him running down the corridor on his way home when I said: "See you tomorrow at 9am."

Eddie from Hell stopped. Looked at me. Opened his mouth. "Maybe," he said. And ran off.

"Eddie!" I screamed and he stopped in his tracks. "Come back here!" It was such a terse command he immediately came slinking back. "Siddown," I said in my best John Wayne accent, and Eddie from Hell sat down reluctantly.

I took a deep breath. "You're not coming tomorrow, are you?"

He ummed and ahhed and spoke in every tangent other than direct. "Actually, my mother is arriving from upcountry tonight, and I have to take her to the hospital tomorrow morning."

"So," I began, realising the utter futility of even asking, "Why didn't you tell me you wouldn't be able to make it?"

Eddie from Hell looked at me and, true to his name, replied: "Greng jai." Greng jai. Eddie from Hell didn't want to say: "I can't come tomorrow morning," because he was considerate of my feelings?! He didn't want to upset me, so it was easier just to leave me like a shag on a rock at the squash court the next morning. At least I didn't feel bad in front of his face.

Back when I used to drive, I was coming out of my moo ban when I spotted a young man who lived two doors down from me walking to the end of the soi where he worked. I wound down the window. "Hop in," I said. "I'll give you a lift."

He smiled and waied me and said never mind. I was insistent. He shook his head: "It's okay. Greng jai."

Now, to my Western mind that simply didn't make sense. How was it putting me out for him to sit in my car for two minutes to the end of the soi? But I had been in Thailand long enough to know what was going on. As the son of a maid, it wasn't right for him to have a farang drive him to work. Either that, or his mother had taught him well - as did my own - not to accept lifts from weird looking men. Imagine if I'd offered him a lolly!

It wasn't long after that incident that we had a new show on TV. The work process was simple - we filmed the show, edited it, sent it to me to check the English graphics, changes would be made, then we sent it to the TV station. When I told my assistant producer, Chicken (Remember him? The cock story from three or four weeks ago?), he understood his position clearly.

We filmed the first episode. Chicken went away and edited it. He sent a copy to me to check, and sure enough, there were 10 mistakes.

Chicken sat down with a pen and paper and jotted down the mistakes as I went through the tape with him. Spelling mistakes, graphics in the wrong colour, extra words to be added - the usual stuff. Chicken nodded wisely and wrote furiously. At the end I asked Chicken the fatal question: "Now, how quickly can you make these changes so that we can send this on to the TV station?"

Chicken turned into Eddie from Hell. "Well, um, actually it's like this - I sent it to the TV station already," he said.

"You what"? It took all I could to tame the Hideous Farang Beast within me from rising up. The fact he had sent it already was bad enough. But the guy had sat there for half an hour writing down the changes he knew all along he wouldn't have to make! "Why didn't you tell me in the beginning before we wasted all this time telling you to make the changes? Why, Chicken? Why?" I was sounding like a jilted soap opera star.

"Greng jai," Chicken replied.

So I don't know if greng jai is as good as the Thais crack it up to be. I only know it is, and it exists. And it works! These days when I won't arrive for another hour I tell my workmate I'm 10 minutes away. When my Brunch editor calls me for my column, I tell him he'll get it in an hour and then, later that night, I start to wonder what I will write about when I sit down at my PC the next morning.

This is the joy of living in Thailand. You don't have to be responsible for your actions. You don't have to aspire to greatness. You just have to be greng jai - of everybody.