On Songtaus and Acculturation

Funny moment:
There was a songtau driver standing on the sidewalk. He had just finished pissing on the curb and blowing his right nostril. He was mining for gold in the left when he burped resoundingly.
He saw me picking at a chunk of something in my teeth.
And I was the one being uncouth.

There's a lot to be learned from songtau drivers, actually. I keep flashing to a scene in Ayutthaya: in the middle of the historic park, between Khmer-style ruins, there was a lineup of songtaus sitting out the afternoon doldrums. Most of the drivers were in hammocks slung between the trees lining the avenue built in time immemorial. A few sat in folding chairs around a folding table scattered with lunchtime detritus.
I walked past the next afternoon. A peach of an afternoon thunderhead was billowing up. It appeared that the same drivers were parked in the same spots, but the hammocks were slung in the backs of their rigs.
And otherwise they spend the full day--anytime from an hour before dawn to whenever the farangs quiet down--in their rigs, trolling for ten-baht rides.