Henk [an expatriate Dutchman] drove us down a narrow alley to avoid the traffic jam on Phya Thai Road. We crawled through soi after soi, each one crowded with shops spilling into the center of the alley. Lights glared over tables filled with clothing, bolts of fabric, watches, and hardware; food stalls lined every curb, steam rose from cooking pots, and the smells of grilled meat wafted on the thick air. Music blared, and people were everywhere , doing business, hanging out, laughing with friends, passing the time, all part of the driving energy of the night. Guiding the car slowly through the melee, gazing through the windshield with a sweaty rapture on his face, Henk said suddenly, “This is why I live here! There is so much life! You would never find people out like this in Holland.”
—Larry Habegger, “Eating the Wind”
There were three badminton games in progress, a man was swinging a sword, a golfer was practicing chip shots, some boys were playing soccer, and a group of Thai boxers were shadow-boxing. Because of Bangkok’s oppressive heat, of course, dawn is the ideal time to exercise.
James wanted us to see one final attraction, a Siamese fish fight, but it seemed they were only held on the weekends.We would be gone by then. So we decided to hold our own. When James was a boy, he had found his fighting fish by going down to the rice paddies and scooping them up in his hands.The females, which he could identify by a white mark on the fin, he returned to the water. Only the males will fight.Then he and his friends would get together and bet on the outcome. Kids in Thailand also stage cricket fights and beetle fights and in rural areas, we had seen them playing pitch-penny with washers and wagering rubber bands, which they wore on their arms by dozens like prized jewelry.
We did not have the time or inclination to seek out a rice paddy, so we took a taxi to the local pet store which sold fighting fish for $1 each. They were easy to spot. Each required its own separate plastic baggie, filled with a little water. The baggies floated on top of the goldfish aquarium by the score. Had the fighting fish been turned loose, the owner told us, they would have torn each other to ribbons. They seemed harmless enough to look at, about the size of a thumb and murky brown or gray in color. We purchased nine of them plus a baggie of mosquito larvae to sustain their strength.
The fish customarily fight in round jars so there is no hiding in corners. We bought two of them, plus four containers of unpurified water. While setting everything up back at the hotel, James told us to be careful not to put the fish within sight of another or they would mash their faces against the glass in an effort to attack. The same was true if you put one in front of a mirror. He would butt himself into submission. It was difficult to believe that this innocuous-looking little creature before me was so full of anger and aggression.
And then the battle. For the next four hours we fought these game little roughnecks. When they first faced each other in the jar, the fish literally lit up. Their dull colors immediately flushed to iridescent crimson, emerald, or aquamarine. Their fins flared out as they circled. Then, finally, they attacked.
It was not as vicious as we had been led to believe. No fish was torn to ribbons. Shredded a little, perhaps, at least around the fins, which was the primary focus of attack. Sometimes one would latch onto another’s gill which seemed to be an effective hold. And often the two would become clamped in a liplock, turn upside down, and fight that way for a while. When one had had enough—the fights seldom lasted more than ten minutes—it would suddenly back off, lose all color, turning almost completely white, and swim away. Then, as had happened with the bulls, the victor would follow the vanquished around the jar without attacking. Bets were paid. The fight was history.
Two fish remained undefeated. One was a favorite of James, a pig with fins, a blue monster the size of a big toe. The other was mine, Rama I, a green tiger with a lifetime 4-0 record. I wouldn’t put him in against James’ pig. One thing I had learned from watching the bulls and fish was that the big guy eventually won. He would wear down the smaller, quicker opponent with the great big heart. Every time.
James took his monster home with him. I had a feeling that it would make the rounds that weekend at the local fish-fighting hangout. We flushed the losers down the toilet with enough mosquito larvae to sustain them, if they were lucky, for months. As for Rama I, I put him in a jar, took a taxi to the klong and dropped him in beside a water-hyacinth. It was only fair. Like the great Thai boxer, Nai Khanom Tom, the man who had defeated ten Burmese, that fish had earned its freedom. Thailand, after all, means “land of the free.”
E.M. Swift is a senior writer for Sports Illustrated. He lives in Carlisle, Massachusetts, when he’s not traveling.
“Kriangjai” denotes reluctance to bother someone of higher status with a petty matter. Or upsetting someone with bad news. Thus, an underling may neglect to tell his boss the water pipes have burst and flooded the basement because that would upset him. Worse yet, it would make the underling the bearer of bad tidings and thus reflect badly in his boss’s eyes. Much better to let someone else tell him or let the boss discover it himself.
—Steve Van Beek, “Thailand Notes”
PART THREE
GOING YOUR OWN WAY
SUSAN FULOP KEPNER
Mein Gott, Miss Siripan
Learning a tonal language such as Thai is a challenge under any circumstances, yet not without unexpected rewards.
THERE ARE SEVERAL REASONS WHY PEOPLE STRIVE TO BECOME fluent in the local language when they go to work in a foreign country. One is sheer intellectual curiosity; another is the fear of being left out of a conversation just when it is getting interesting. Driven entirely by the latter motivation, the first thing I did when I went to work in Thailand was to look for a language tutor.
Miss Siripan came highly recommended by my next-door neighbor Mallika. Mallika’s version of English was unique and innovative. Much later, I would undersand the reason: her self-taught English was ingeniously—and directly—translated from Thai.
“I tell you true, Mrs. Su-san, Miss Siripan not can teach you Thai, not have a day you learn, for sure. This woman better from every Thai teacher.”
True, Mallika went on, Miss Siripan wasn’t exactly Thai. But she was practically born in Thailand, and if the boat from China had gone a little faster, she would have been. “This is the fault of Miss Siripan?”
Certainly not, I agreed.
Miss Siripan had a Thai name and she spoke perfect Thai, and she had taught herself both German and English. Miss Siripan was the smartest person Mallika had ever met. “Never mind what people say.”
What did people say?
Mallika waved her hand dismissively. “About how she crazy, about how she a mean woman. She just like a determine woman, that’s all, she perfect for you learn talking like a real Thai.”
I shall never forget the day Miss Siripan first appeared on my front porch. She stood framed by the screen door, a gaunt woman of about 35 with a fierce, square smile and enormous sunglasses that she never removed. She introduced herself in a startlingly high-pitched voice that rose imperiously at the end of each phrase.
“I have taught many Americans,” she said. “Most are dummies. Expecially the men, to my experience. But the women are more lazy, to my experience. What are you thinking about that?”
“Well, I…”
“Never mind. Why are you not inviting me inside your house?”
“Oh, I am sorry. Whatever can I be thinking of…”
“How do I know?”
I opened the door. Miss Siripan slipped out of her shoes, as one always does in Thai homes, strode through the living room, into the dining room, and sat down at the head of the table.
“Sit down, Mrs. Su-san,” she gestured graciously. “Thank you. If you are lazy or a dummy, I will not teach you. If you tell a lie to me, I will never come back. If you wish to learn Thai language you must read Thai. Not what you call pho-ne-tic. Pho-ne-tic is not good. Make you talk so nobody can know what you say. I teach you Thai alphabet. You talk Thai l
ike a Thai people, not like pho-ne-tic.”
“Frankly, Miss Siripan, I thought that perhaps—”
“You perhaps nothing. You want to learn Thai from me, I must be proud when somebody hear you.”
She dug around in her huge handbag, finally coming up with a Thai primer. On the first page she pointed out the first letter of the alphabet, gaw, which looks like “n” and is equivalent to a hard “g.” Above gaw was a picture of a big black chicken, gai. Gaw is for gai, just as “a” is for “apple.”
“Look at gaw,” she commanded, tapping one dagger-like fingernail on the chicken’s beak. “American pho-ne-tic say this same ‘k’ so maybe you go around and never know is not same ‘k.’ Is sound gaw gaw gaw, not kaw kaw kaw like crow. You want forever say kai instead of gai when you try to buy chicken and market woman think you say kai-egg from letter kaw but you only know American pho-ne-tic so you never hear any difference, and Thai people think you not know what, Mrs. Su-san?”
Inside me, a tiny voice was saying, “If this woman is still here in fifteen minutes, you will have agreed to anything.”
The mesmerizing tap of Miss Siripan’s amazing fingernail on the chicken’s beak continued. “Repeat after me this one sentence.” She slowly pronounced a series of sounds, I strained to pronounce them. No mynah bird could have done better.
Thai consonants
Thai vowels
Why did I try so hard? Was it because I hoped to vindicate my countrymen (dummies) and women (lazies)? Or because I could not—for reasons I couldn’t begin to understand—bear to disappoint Miss Siripan?
When I finished, there was a long silence, the first since her arrival.
“Mein Gott!” she exclaimed in a stage whisper, then grasped my hands with excruciating force. “Mein Gott, Mrs. Su-san, you have ear! I can’t believe it, I finally got a student who hears Thai language. All many damn dummies and lazy women and now, now I am luckiest Thai teacher in Bangkok. You know what you said, Mrs. Su-san?”
“Something about a chicken?”
She roared with laughter and wiped her eyes. “Never mind damn chicken. I just fool you about that. You said, ‘I will write Thai language.’
Fifteen minutes had not passed. She had hooked me in three.
“Today I tell you twenty letters,” she continued, now triumphant. “You say after me until you perfect, then you write one hundred times each letter for homework. I come back tomorrow with more books.”
An American study in the 1970s found that American speakers were best able to pronounce Thai sentences after consuming one ounce of alcohol.
—Michael Buckley, Bangkok Handbook
“When will you expect me to have written the twenty letters one hundred times?”
“Why you not listen to me? I said I come back tomorrow. Every day, twenty letters. On fourth day, finish all sixty-four alphabet letters and feel pride and happiness. Then for two weeks practice five tones of Thai language, and make one hundred sentences every day. Then for two months read newspaper and make vocabulary. Then you will be a Thai-speaking person.” She sat back and smiled. “Not one hundred percent, but I won’t have to be ashamed when somebody hear you.”
The weeks passed. Hour after hour, day after day, I copied, memorized, repeated sounds. First letters, then words, then the five tones of the Thai language which are as important as the alphabet itself. To change “horse” to “dog,” or “wood” to “new,” nothing was required but the rise and fall of the voice.
Three months passed. Then one evening as I stared at the dozens of sheets of homework filled with columns of scribbled words, I was overwhelmed. I had completed only 64 of my mandatory 100 new sentences for the week. My mind was empty. I didn’t want to learn anything. I quit, and I didn’t care.
But the next evening, when I heard Miss Siripan walking up the path, suddenly I cared very, very much. The quite justifiable speech I had rehearsed 20 or 30 times had become a mouthful of ashes.
There was only one sensible thing to do, and I did it. I ran upstairs, locked myself in the bathroom, and told my servant Anong to tell Miss Siripan that I was quite, quite ill.
I had told a lie.
Cowering in the bathroom, I heard Miss Siripan speak sharply to Anong. The terrified Anong whimpered in reply and scurried away. Then came the steady pad, pad of Miss Siripan’s bare feet on the stairs.
“Mrs. Su-san,” she shouted. “You not sick. You not finish sentences. True or false?”
“I…please, not today.”
“You see! You afraid make more lies.”
I hated myself for the sniffling, squeaking noises that were escaping through the bath towel.
“Sounding like a mouse, Mrs. Su-san,” Miss Siripan said. She laughed, softly for her, and said, “I know you are not a dummy, not lazy. Maybe I make too hard for you. I come back tomorrow. You make only, maybe fifty sentences. But no more lies.”
“Thank you,” I whispered through the door, but didn’t unblock it. “I promise I will never lie to you again.”
“Stop that mouse crying. Stay in the bathroom so you not have to look at me and lose your face.”
Her footsteps faded away, the screen door banged shut. I watched the second hand on my watch go around twice, then unlocked the door. Ever afterword, I would understand the subtle give-and-take of “saving face.”
In another month I was truly reading, writing, and speaking Thai. Not 100 percent, but Miss Siripan did not have to be “ashamed for somebody to hear me.” Her joy in my progress was almost embarrassing. But my ability to hold up under her will, what had become her total domination of my life, was crumbling. And so I grasped at a feeble excuse, in an attempt to pull away.
“Miss Siripan,” I began, keeping my eyes fixed on the newspaper I had been reading aloud to the steady tap-tap of her fingernail. (“Mrs. Su-san! Thai rhythm. Thai rhythm.”) “Miss Siripan, there’s something I have to tell you. Really, it’s good news.”
The tapping stopped abruptly.
“I got a promotion at work.” This was true. Whatever excuse I used, it would have to be at least grounded in the truth. “Of course, I’m thrilled, and I’m sure you know that a big part of it is all you’ve done for me.”
Silence.
I began babbling. “This will mean I have to work a lot more hours—actually, I’ll probably rue the day I got promoted—and I—I hope you will undertand but I am just going to have to take a break from studying Thai for a while. Of course, it won’t be permanent. I mean, I think I just need a few months.”
Miss Siripan sat perfectly still for a moment, then rose slowly from the dining room table with an unbearable smile on her face.
“This is not about promotion, is it? Say so, Mrs. Su-san. Do not tell a lie to me!”
“I did get a promotion. I have never lied to you since—since that one time. Oh, Miss Siripan. Please, please try to understand.”
She began stacking her books neatly. Then she reached swiftly across the table and clutched my shoulders. The force of her grasp was painful. And then, with one awful sob, she snatched up her books and her handbag, and fled.
I did not hear from Miss Siripan for an entire year. During that time, I studied with a friend’s auntie who was eager to introduce me to Thai literature. Khun Sangworn was a soft-spoken, lovely lady who amused herself by translating French novels into Thai. Every few years she would take a coterie of young Thai ladies on a cultural tour of Switzerland, France, and Italy.
If Miss Siripan had been, as Mallika described her, “not exactly Thai,” Khun Sangworn was quintessentially Thai. The contrast between my first teacher and my second was indescribable.
The first time Miss Siripan came back to visit, she was friendly and polite, and made no mention of our lessons together. Although she made clear that she knew I was studying with someone else, we both smiled our way through the conversation, saving each other’s face.
Every month or so thereafter, she would drop in unexpectedly for tea. Occasionally
she would correct a slip in my Thai, we would laugh, and the sense of strain would fall away. But eventually the visits stopped. I wrote, and my letter was returned “addressee unknown.”
Travelers' Tales Thailand: True Stories (Travelers' Tales Guides) Page 23
