I never saw Miss Siripan again.
Over twenty years have passed since I sat across a dining-room table from that remarkable woman, learning to speak Thai with a faintly Chinese-German accent, and reading newspaper articles aloud, frequently interrupted by her high, sharp voice and her shattering laugh.
The excellent Susan Kepner has also translated and written an introduction to Botan’s Letters from Thailand, which deals with the life of the Chinese minority. Of all the countries of Southeast Asia where Chinese have settled over the last four centuries, it is only in Thailand and to a lesser extent the Philippines that they have been accepted and even assimilated.
—Richard West, “Royal Family Thais,” New York Review of Books
“Mrs. Su-san, wrong, wrong, wrong! Why you make word for ‘revolt’ sound like word for ‘shrimp paste’? Some revolt. Maybe Mrs. Su-san wants to say about those revolting people. ‘Let them eat shrimp paste!’”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What, Mrs. Su-san never study French Revolution?”
“It’s not revolting people, Miss Siripan. It’s rebelling.”
“What is revolting?”
“Actually, shrimp paste is revolting. It smells.”
“What you expect? Smell bad because it get old, and smashed with salt.”
“Right. So I don’t want to eat it. I rebel…”
Revolt is ga-bot…shrimp paste is ga-bi…Never to be forgotten.
I remember particularly one day toward the end of our lessons together, when she appeared with those other books.
“Mrs. Su-san, you speak pretty good Thai now. I have taught you because I had an intelligent idea. If American can read Thai alphabet and make all sounds fluently, that American can use Thai for something important. Here, you copy this.”
She scribbled something on a sheet of paper and pushed it toward me.
“But, Miss Siripan, this is a Chinese character! What does this have to do with my Thai?”
“Ha, ha! Perfect Thai alphabet with vowel and tone can make pho-ne-tic way for learn Chinese one hundred percent better from English pho-ne-tic for Chinese. English pho-ne-tic smell for learn Thai, smell worse one hundred times for learn Chinese. Make you speak Chinese like I not know what—
“Oi, Mrs. Su-san! You crying? You going to lock yourself in bathroom again?”
She smiled, but then, sensing my mood, she asked, “You angry, Mrs. Su-san?”
“It isn’t a matter of angry—I mean anger. I guess I just can’t cope with this—this idea of yours.”
“Cope?” she frowned. “I do not know this word, cope.”
“It means—well, I just can’t begin to manage the idea of studying Chinese at this point.”
“Ah.” Her expression relaxed. “Manage. I know about manage. Never mind. I manage. You write.”
No, Miss Siripan. I wasn’t angry. Not then, not now. Wherever you are, I hope you have a student who does not tell lies, and who has an ear, and who, Mein Gott, will remember you as fondly as I do.
Susan Kepner teaches Southeast Asian Cultures and Literatures and the Thai language at the University of California, Berkeley. She is the author of The Lioness in Bloom: Modern Thai Fiction about Women, and a new edition of her translation of the Thai novel Letters from Thailand.
Do you want to say “I love you” in Thai?
“Phom” always means “I” (male)
“Dii-chan” always means “I” (female)
“Chan” can mean “I” (male or female)
“Khun” and “thoe” both mean “you” (male or female)
“Chan rak thoe” for “I love you” is far more common than “Chan rak
khun,” since “khun” is rather more formal in the context of such intimacy.
—Joe Cummings
KAREN L. LARSEN
Farang for a Day
Stagefright isn’t the only thing that melts in this meeting between a teacher from Montana and a class of 200 students.
THE FADED GREEN VAN WORMED ITS WAY THROUGH THE BANGKOK streets lined with shops all filled with an infinite variety of goods oozing out of the cracks and spilling onto the sidewalks. As we drove across the Chao Phya river, the discussion in the van, alternating between Thai and English, flowed from my life in Bangkok fifteen years ago to what I was to encounter at Wat Noi Nai, where I’d teach for the day.
As we turned down the small soi lined with fenced houses and an occasional open-air restaurant, I was exasperated to learn I’d be facing a morning and an afternoon class of two hundred students each. The Thai teachers calmly told me I could teach the students a game or do conversation with the classes—whichever I liked. “Two hundred students? A game? Conversation to two hundred?” I thought, “And in one class? This is crazy.” Before I had time to reconsider my decision to come here for the day, I was told how fortunate the school felt. “We haven’t had a foreign teacher for many years. Our students will be so lucky to have you today. We’re so pleased and fortunate.” How could I turn back now? I was their farang for a day, some students’ only contact with a native English speaker. Two hundred students or not, here I was.
Entering the school compound, I noticed the field in front of the flagpole filled with endless rows of students dressed in stiffly starched, sparkling white shirts and navy blue pants or skirts. All eyes darted in my direction as my hosts escorted me from the van through the heat and humidity to the English office building. The director was announcing over the intercom that today was special because a farang would be teaching. I laughed to myself, feeling proud to be considered special and yet knowing I could never give them as much as they thought.
The number two hundred kept running through my mind. I quickly reviewed my past three weeks as an American Field Service Exchange Teacher. At Suan Suanantha in Bangkok, I had survived teaching classes ranging anywhere from thirty-five to sixty-seven students. I had spoken of American life, Montana and its wide open spaces, Joliet, the school and the students there. But with two hundred students? How was I to pass around the picture of my house (You live alone here? Why isn’t there a fence around it?), a school bus (It’s free. No charge, you mean?), the Joliet cemetery (Bodies are buried there?)—all oddities to Thai students. It would never work—What would I ever do with a class this big?
Before I could decide, my thoughts and fears were driven aside. I was shuffled off to the English department and introduced to teachers who crowded around me as young children around a new toy. Ushered to a desk, I was offered Coke and exotic Thai fruits of rambutan and mangosteen. Two fans were placed to keep me cool, and everyone wanted to know if their special visitor was comfortable. “Do you need more Coke?” “Would you like to go to the bathroom?” “Do you like this kind of fruit? Can we get you another kind?” With all this Thai hospitality and fuss, I hardly had time to think of the class of two hundred awaiting my arrival in a few minutes.
Kwàa tùa jà sùk, ngâa kâw mâi. “Before the peanuts are cooked, the sesame (seeds) will have burned.”
—Thai proverb
“Come. It is time.” I wasn’t certain whether I was being led to a death squad or an arena filled with fans, but I quickly followed along behind the Thai teachers who proudly led me to the auditorium. On my entering, the idle chatter among the student’s turned to “ooh’s” and “ahh’s”—once again I felt like a queen or a rock star. Slowly I fell into the cushioned seat offered me, for I was overwhelmed with all the attention. I thought, “What am I going to do?” Again, I heard how fortunate the students were to have me to talk to them, and then came my introduction in Thai. I walked up to the podium where fans and ice-cold Coke awaited me once again.
As I looked out over the ocean of students, my heart melted. Could it be the sweltering heat and humidity of Bangkok that was doing this to me? Or could it be my nervousness in facing all these students?
Drawing in a deep breath, I began what had become a routine—my name, what state I was from as well as telling where Montana
was since it is relatively unknown in Thailand, my occupation, and my life in Thailand fifteen years ago. Then came the photos and folders about Montana, Joliet, Yellowstone National Park, Old Faithful, and, naturally, Christmas and snow storms. I wondered how much of all this the Thai students were comprehending. The faces still shined with the heart-warming Thai smiles; their eyes stared unbelievably at the snow, the geysers, the wide open spaces, and the unfenced houses.
Oh, how I would like to take each and every one of them back to America to show them all these things in person. It seemed so unfair for me to be sharing their world of klongs, wats, ngok rongrien (rambutan), and talaats (markets)—and all I could offer them were pictures and folders. But never once was there any show of displeasure—only hunger for more, more pictures, more spoken English, more stories, more of the farang.
Reluctantly, I asked for questions, for knowing the Thai classroom and Thai students I was afraid there would be none. I looked out over this sea again to see if there were any movement. None—only those smiling faces and shining eyes staring up at me. Again, I begged for questions. Only after telling them they could ask in Thai did I finally get a response. Then came the bombardment of the nine questions I had been asked so often over the past weeks. How old are you? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? What do you think of Thailand? What do you think of Thai people? What Thai food can you eat? What Thai fruit do you like? Can you eat durian? And the last and most often asked: Can you sing a song?
Finally, I would smile and say, “No, I can’t sing, but I do have a tape of some American songs for you.” That always brought the end to any sort of lesson, for the Thai students love to sing or just listen to songs, especially “Old MacDonald.” The “quack, quack” part always brought laughter and cries for “one more time, one more time.” They struggled through “Bingo” until the clapping and leaving out the letter became routine, while I struggled with the fact that everything I did was being videotaped. Hearing two hundred students singing “B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, and Bingo was his name-o,” was amusing, but the highlight was yet to come.
With about twenty minutes left, I fast forwarded the tape to “Skid-a-ma-rink-a-dink-a-dink.” Slowly going over the words and having the students repeat each syllable, then each word, then each line, I rewound the tape as fresh Coke was again delivered to the podium. I quickly took a drink to clear my dry throat and asked the students if they were ready. Following the words written on the blackboard, the students loudly sang along to the tape. On the third time, I turned off the tape and looked out over my ocean of students again. My eyes filled with tears as all 200 shining, smiling Thai faces looked up at me and sang “Skidamarinkadinkadink, skidamarinkadinkadink, we love you.” How could I ever leave students who were so eager to learn, who were so eager to please their special guest, who were so eager to drink in all a farang could tell them?
After the usual “thank you, teacher,” with students standing and placing their hands in a wai, the show of respect, I gathered my well-fingered photos and folders, received a thank-you gift of pink lotus flowers from the school’s director, and stepped off stage. My rock star routine was over, or so I thought. Within minutes about a hundred students with pens, pencils and papers gathered around me. They wanted my name and address, and some without paper requested I sign their shirts or handkerchiefs. It didn’t end there—next came the handshakes, about fifty to sixty. Several students handed me gifts of champoo (a rose-apple fruit), book-marks, and kluay hom (one of the nine types of Thai bananas). I was beginning to think I’d never be able to leave the auditorium, but at last the line ended.
As I made my way through the parted sea, one young Thai student came running up to me. I held out my hand, thinking she wanted to shake hands. She slowly shook her head from side to side, looked up at me with warm, smiling eyes, and said, “I love you.” Dropping the photos and folders to the floor, I quickly grabbed her in my arms and held her tightly, repeating, “I love you.” My eyes swelled with tears, my heart melted.
Back now in Montana, each time I recall this particular memory of my summer stay, my heart twinges. Not from the heat and humidity but rather the warmth, hospitality, and love shown by the always-smiling Thai students.
Karen L. Larsen used to teach at Joliet High School, Montana, but seems to have moved on. Perhaps she was drawn back to Thailand, or has taken her skills to another foreign land.
Buddhism has not been kind to women. Although there is evidence that they once were ordained as monks, none exist today. The logic employed to bar them from the priesthood is specious. No less an authority than Kukrit Pramoj (found elsewhere in this book) argues that a nun can only be ordained by another nun. And since there are no ordained nuns, there is no one to anoint a new one. A woman may wear white robes and live in a nunnery but does not enjoy the same respect as a monk. She achieves grace through men. Thus, when a man takes vows as a monk, he earns merit not only for himself but for his female relatives. Among his vows is one of chastity which means he cannot touch a woman, not even his mother. Foreign women are advised to avoid brushing against them, even in crowded buses, for fear of compromising their vows.
—Steve Van Beek, “Thailand Notes”
KEVIN MC AULIFFE
Bridge to Yesterday
Movies can derive from real experience, but they create real experience too. For the author, the reality behind a movie and the reality it created for him meet.
I WAS EIGHT YEARS OLD WHEN I FIRST SAW THE BRIDGE ON THE River Kwai, and I’ve seen it twelve times since. I never tire of watching William Holden desperately splashing across the water through a hail of Japanese bullets, or Alec Guinness, eyes rolled back, dying and dynamiting his creation in the same indelible instant. With damp palms and racing pulse, I may yet see my favorite war movie another dozen times.
Director David Lean’s 1957 epic affected millions of other viewers, some of them no less Kwai-struck than I. Pierre Boulle’s best-selling French novel, on which the film was based, goes on attracting new readers. Still, few today realize that the Kwai fiction is actually fact—there was indeed such a bridge during World War II.
The Bridge over the River Kwai
The movie that rivets me was imaginary mainly to the extent that Lean shot it in Sri Lanka, a thousand miles from its wartime origins. As soon as I first learned this, I began musing about the real Kwai, the real shooting location as it were, and I dreamed of someday exploring whatever ruins survived.
My reading informed me that the wartime bridge spanned the banks of the Kwai in a town called Kanchanaburi, in the interior of Thailand, about 80 miles northwest of Bangkok. Japanese military planners saw this place as ideal for spanning the river and completing a strategic rail link between Rangoon and Bangkok. To do the job, the Japanese turned 30,000 Allied POWs and 100,000 Asian civilians (mostly Chinese and Malay coolies) into slave laborers. More than half were worked to death under hellish conditions.
In real life, no commandos trekked through the jungle to blow up the bridge; but Allied bombers, after repeated attempts, finally destroyed it in 1945. After the war, Thailand reopened the rail line as far as its remote hill country—and restored the bridge on the river Kwai.
It is still there, still operating—which meant, when I recently planned a solo trip through Asia, that I really had no choice. I had to find and see the real bridge for myself.
In 1977, local Buddhist monks opened a museum on the site of one of the POW camps; a few travelers with wartime memories have since made their way to Kanchanaburi. But only recently has the Thai Government recognized the historical (and tourist) value of the place. Indeed, the travel agent who booked my hotels in Asia tried to convince me that it would be impossible to see the bridge on my own, much less go there and return the same day.
As it turned out, I had ample time not only to visit Bangkok’s Grand Palace and Wat Phra Keo Temple, but also to take a bus from the city out to the bridge and back—all in one day.
B
uses for the two-and-a-half-hour trip are plentiful. Air-conditioned coaches depart every hour directly across from the local railroad station on Charansanitwong Road in the Thonburi district. Regular buses leave every fifteen minutes from a terminal two blocks south. At current exchange rates, either bus is far cheaper than a taxi ride across Bangkok. And both stop at Nakhon Pathom, where you can walk into Asia’s tallest Buddhist pagoda, then simply board the next bus to resume your journey.
Railroad buffs can take the train to Kanchanaburi, then take a local across the bridge to Nam Tok.
—JO’R and LH
In Kanchanaburi, I found a modern provincial capital of 50,000 people, surrounded by lush green hills. The Japanese used it for their construction headquarters and POW camps. Following the bilingual street signs along Saeng Chuto Road, the town’s main drag, I quickly found the Tourism Authority of Thailand office, received directions, and walked another five minutes to the War Museum along the river banks.
Travelers' Tales Thailand: True Stories (Travelers' Tales Guides) Page 24
