‘What’s with that piece of cloth coming from inside the coffin?’ Paul asked.
‘It signifies that the robes are donated on behalf of the deceased,’ Rajiv said. ‘In the old days, the monks were taking the rags from dead bodies to make their robes. By donating the robes at the funeral, the monks do not have to be using rags anymore.’
Paul shuddered. ‘Sorry I asked.’
A woman Rajiv recognised as Amnat’s daughter wandered among the crowd offering the mourners a buff-coloured flower from her bouquet. Up close, Rajiv saw they were not real but had been delicately fashioned from wood shavings.
‘Dok mai jan,’ Jayne said as she took one. ‘You place it on the tray under the coffin. It symbolises that we are helping to fuel the fire.’ She turned to Paul. ‘If you want, when you place the flower you can knock three times on the coffin, wai, and tell the person you forgive them for any wrongdoings, to put their spirit at ease.’
‘Can you ask for their forgiveness if the wrongdoings were on your part?’
‘Up to you,’ she said.
Tears welled in Paul’s eyes.
‘Try not to be crying,’ Rajiv said gently to him. ‘Thai people believe the deceased will become anxious if your tears fall on them, and they will have to swim through your tears to reach heaven.’
The three of them filed past, adding their flowers to the pile. Jayne knocked on the coffin, Rajiv managed a wai, while Paul could only bite his lip and look away. When all mourners had paid their respects, a man in a navy safari suit made his way forward, wielding a hammer.
‘What the hell’s he doing with that?’ Paul hissed.
‘He’s removing the ornaments decorating the coffin.’ Another practice Rajiv had gleaned from his reading.
‘Seems a bit callous.’
Rajiv was going to make an observation about poor people not wasting resources but decided against it.
‘We can go now if you’d rather not see the coffin placed in the crematorium,’ Jayne said to Paul.
‘I want to stay,’ he said, transfixed by the man with the hammer.
‘I should warn you, they’ll open the coffin lid before they put it in the oven.’ Jayne said.
‘Oh god, really?’
‘It’s to say the last goodbye,’ Rajiv added.
Paul looked horrified but did not move as the man with the hammer started prising off the coffin lid. Most of the mourners had dispersed, but Jayne, Paul and Rajiv stayed as the lid was removed. Pla’s corpse was wrapped in white like a mummy. The man exchanged his hammer for a machete. Amnat handed him a green coconut, which he sliced open in one hit.
Rajiv thought fleetingly of his father’s funeral, and his older brother, wearing white, his head shaved in mourning, lifting a clay jar over his head and letting it smash on the ground behind him. It is finished.
One of the senior monks poured the coconut juice into Pla’s coffin before a group of young men lifted it from the stand and pushed it into the chamber of the crematorium. Several mourners took the opportunity to throw in a last dok mai jan before the oven door was closed.
The man with the machete began clearing the funeral props. With a glance at the smoke wafting from the crematorium’s tall white chimney, Paul turned and walked away. Rajiv and Jayne followed, but Amnat and Mae Yada headed them off. They were accompanied by a third man Rajiv did not recognise, who looked too glossy to be a fellow villager.
The two elders spoke at length with Jayne. Their accents made it hard for Rajiv to pick up much, but they kept mentioning the word ‘farang’ and nodding at Paul. The third man twisted the gold signet ring around his little finger and said nothing.
‘Uncle Amnat says everyone believes Pla’s ashes should be returned to her hometown in Nakhon Si Thammarat province,’ Jayne explained. ‘He wants to know if Paul will take them.’
‘Me?’
‘None of the villagers can afford to make the trip. Even on a volunteer stipend, you make more money than they do.’
‘W-what if I covered the costs for someone else to go?’ Paul asked.
‘It’s not that simple. They can’t afford to spend time away from their livelihoods and family responsibilities.’
Amnat spoke again and Jayne translated. ‘There are regular buses daily from Krabi to Nakhon Si Thammarat town. You need to get a share taxi from there to Khanom. It’s best to stay overnight as it’s three or four hours by bus, followed by another two hours by taxi.’
‘But I haven’t agreed to go,’ Paul said. ‘I don’t speak enough Thai to do it on my own. I mean, I’d be willing to go if—’ He looked from Jayne to Rajiv and back again. ‘Any chance the two of you would come with me?’
Jayne blushed. Rajiv steeled himself, waiting for her to plead her case, wondering what tack she would take. Would she try to convince him to come along or to let her go? Would she make it about helping Paul or making her peace with Pla?
‘I’m sorry but we can’t afford to spend any more time away from the business,’ she said.
Not the response Rajiv had anticipated. He felt guilty for having underestimated her.
‘You will not be needing the two of us,’ he found himself saying. ‘Jayne is the one who is speaking Thai. She could accompany you while I return to Bangkok and attend to our affairs.’
‘Are you sure you can spare her, mate?’ Paul asked.
Though not entirely comfortable with the Australian’s habitual use of ‘mate’ as a form of address—where Rajiv came from, mate had a different connotation—he nodded. ‘It’s up to Jayne, of course.’
She looked at him, her eyes shining. ‘I’d like to help take Pla’s ashes home.’
‘Then it’s settled.’
‘I’d better let Amnat know,’ Jayne said.
The old man flashed his gap-toothed grin in response and even Mae Yada smiled. They gestured at the crematorium and spoke for a few more minutes. The man with the gold signet ring handed Jayne an envelope, gave her a wai and joined the exodus from the temple grounds.
‘What was all that about?’ Paul asked.
‘They said the ashes will be ready for collection in the morning. We can stop by on our way to the bus station.’
‘And the mysterious stranger?’ Rajiv nodded at the envelope in Jayne’s hand.
‘The owner of Barracuda Tours, Pla’s boss. Says he was out of town and only yesterday learned of Pla’s death. I think he’s worried about losing face because a couple of farangs and the local villagers covered the funeral costs for one of his employees.’
The light was fading as they walked towards the roadside. Above the entrance to the temple a fluorescent tube flickered on and was mobbed by gnats within seconds. Jayne paused to check the contents of the envelope.
‘There’s two thousand five hundred baht in here. More than enough to cover the trip to Nakhon Si Thammarat.’
Rajiv smiled. Just Jayne’s luck to agree to a trip that would put her out of pocket only for someone to step in at the eleventh hour to pay for it. She might profess to be an atheist, but that didn’t stop the gods and goddesses of good fortune smiling on Jayne Keeney.
45
Someone had used bright pink raffia to tie the small wooden box containing Pla’s ashes, even fashioning a handle out of the string to make it easier to carry. For Paul, the pretty packaging was at such odds with the grim contents, it only served to heighten his distress as Pla’s remains were handed over into his care for their journey home.
The journey got off to a bumpy start. The public bus to Nakhon Si Thammarat, it turned out, didn’t run on a Friday. Instead, he and Jayne were hustled into a minibus, where twelve Thais were already awaiting departure. Theirs were the last remaining places, in the back row alongside two young men in military fatigues.
Paul put his daypack on the floor and levered himself into place between Jayne and the army guys. The soldier next to him was armed and unsmiling, his gun pressing against Paul’s hip. Paul tried to put some distance between them, but the s
oldier simply sank deeper into the available space. Shoulders hunched and knees pushed up by the pack under his feet, Paul was forced to huddle over Pla’s remains like Scrooge guarding his cashbox.
Jayne seemed impervious to any discomfort. She put her pack on the floor, hung her bag of iced coffee on the back of the seat in front of her, took out a novel and was reading by the time the minibus pulled out into the traffic.
The only book Paul had with him was the Lonely Planet guide to Thailand. He tried reading about their destination but found it hard to concentrate as the minibus hurtled along the highway at breakneck speed, overtaking everything in its path. The swaying motion pushed the soldier’s pistol harder into Paul’s side and made the words swim on the page until he started to feel queasy. When a woman a few rows ahead threw up into a plastic bag, Paul feared he might spill his guts, too.
Another woman yelled something in Thai.
‘What’s she saying?’ Paul asked Jayne.
‘She’s asking the driver to stop because the woman’s sick. Mao loht. It literally means car drunk.’
The minibus came to a screeching halt by the side of the road. The driver got out and walked around to the passenger door, narrowly avoiding the bag of vomit as it was jettisoned out the window in front of him.
Jayne nudged Paul and held out a small jar of Tiger Balm. ‘For motion sickness. Smear some under your nose.’
He helped himself to the ointment, grateful to be looked after. Jayne sent the jar forward to the woman who’d been sick. Murmurs of approval and the word ‘farang’ circulated around the bus, together with the scent of menthol.
Not that it made any impact on the driver: Paul sensed he drove even faster after the pit stop. With the Thai soldier slumped against him and Jayne engrossed in her novel, Paul decided it was best to close his eyes until the journey was over, one way or the other.
Jayne, to paraphrase Kipling, was normally one who kept her head when others around her were losing theirs. Especially when others were losing theirs. Other people’s fear triggered a relaxation response in her. Between Paul, who was nursing Pla’s ashes like they might be snatched away at any moment, and the women throwing up into plastic bags, the harrowing bus trip should have left Jayne feeling positively serene.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling it was Pla’s ghost at the wheel, furious to be leaving Krabi with the mystery of her death unsolved and hell-bent on punishing Jayne for failing her.
She glanced up as the minibus swerved over double lines to pass the car in front; it avoided colliding with an oncoming truck by a fraction of a second, so close, it was hard to imagine how they’d missed it.
Might clues to Pla’s death be found in Nakhon Si Thammarat? Paul’s guidebook had become wedged between them while he slept. Jayne eased it out and read about their destination. The province was mountainous, heavily forested, the last refuge of Thailand’s communist insurgents. The provincial capital of the same name was once a city-state dating back to the second century, a trading partner with China and India, and the port through which Buddhism entered Thailand from Sri Lanka. An important centre of religion and culture, birthplace of Thai shadow puppetry and classical lahkon dance.
It sounded fascinating, but shed no light on Pla’s background. Her hometown of Khanom, two hours north of the capital, rated a cursory mention for its beaches, its proximity to the resort island of Koh Samui, and an economy dependent on fishing and shrimp farming.
Was it significant that Pla had traversed the country to work as a tour guide in Krabi when Koh Samui was within view of her hometown?
Jayne looked up from her reading and wished she hadn’t, as their driver overtook a lorry in another death-defying manoeuvre, this time on a blind corner. Something in the guidebook resonated, but the honking of horns and screeching of tyres made it impossible to concentrate.
The driver made a sudden left turn and dropped his speed, the roar of the engine subsiding to a low growl. Through the window, the jungle lining the highway gave way to cultivated fields and buildings. She nudged Paul as they entered Nakhon Si Thammarat town along a wide boulevard, passing Buddhist temples, Hindu shrines, mosques, churches and the remnants of the old city wall.
There were little red incense holders on every shopfront, mirrors over doorways to repel demons, and spirit houses among the shoes, bags, fishing nets and plastic buckets that spilled out onto the footpaths.
As the minibus pulled over, Jayne saw a silver tray like a cake stand by the side of the road, holding a bowl of rice, a whole fish, a pair of red chopsticks and a glass of clear liquid. Anywhere else it would look like an abandoned lunch, but Jayne had it pegged for a spiritual offering. Nakhon Si Thammarat locals appeared to be either deeply devout or highly superstitious.
‘I feel like kissing the ground,’ Paul said as they broke free of the minibus.
‘Save it for Khanom,’ Jayne said. ‘We’ve still got a two-hour ride ahead of us.’
‘At which point we get to break the bad news to the aunt.’ Paul screwed up his face. ‘We’re going to be buggered.’
‘I’m onto it. We’ll need to spend some time with the aunt, but we don’t want her to feel obliged to put us up. We’ll say we have a hotel booking.’
‘Do we?’
‘Not yet. But we’ll find something. Your guidebook says the area has some great beachfront hotels and hardly any tourists.’
Paul closed his eyes and tilted his face skyward, as though he, too, was petitioning the gods to show him favour.
46
The open-sided shelter at the share taxi stand functioned as a waiting area for drivers rather than passengers, judging by the number of men in uniform dozing on its bench seats. As Jayne and Paul approached, a plump man with a nose like a small brown onion bounced to his feet. His rumpled white shirt rode up to expose a brown paunch overhanging navy slacks. He wore a white handtowel draped around his neck and black rubber sandals on his feet.
‘Where you go?’ he said, tugging at his shirt.
‘Sawadee ka phi. Khoh pai ban Khanom ka.’
‘You want to go Khanom?’
Either he hadn’t realised Jayne was speaking Thai or he wanted to impress her with his English.
‘Yes, Khanom.’
‘Chai, chai, mai pen rai,’ the man said. ‘My name Pongsak. You can call me Pong.’
‘If we’re gonna share a car with him, I hope he doesn’t live up to his name,’ Paul muttered.
Jayne rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. Some Thai names didn’t translate well into English. Pongsak was definitely one of them.
She reverted to Thai to negotiate the price. Pongsak cocked his head, calculating how much they might be worth.
‘One hundred baht,’ he said.
‘For two people?’
He held up one finger.
‘Mai pen rai.’ Jayne turned to walk away.
‘Okay, okay.’ Pongsak waved her back. ‘One hundred baht for two people. But you share the taxi with others, yes?’
‘No problem,’ she said.
Pongsak grinned and reached for Jayne’s pack. ‘What is your name?’
‘I’m Jayne and this is Paul.’
‘I take for you, Miss Jen.’
They followed him past a row of flash new cars to a battered black sedan with a crack in the back window. The left side mirror was missing, the right held in place with gaffer tape. The interior boasted hot-pink seats with a matching quilted tissue-box cover on the back shelf. Pongsak opened the door, releasing a cloying aroma of cigarette smoke and air freshener. The dashboard held a miniature beckoning lady called nang kwak, believed to usher in wealth, and a strip of brass Chinese coins. Five Buddha amulets on a heavy gold chain dangled from the rear-view mirror.
Pongsak offered to switch on the engine so they could wait in the air-conditioning, but Paul insisted that wasn’t necessary. Jayne noted that he didn’t ask her opinion as Rajiv would have done, which pissed her off less than she thought it would.
Not that she liked him assuming authority, but there was a certain relief in not being party to every single decision.
Pongsak made it sound as if passengers were queuing for his services. But after twenty minutes he reappeared with only a tottery white-haired man in tow.
Jayne stubbed out her cigarette. ‘How many people do you normally fit in a share taxi, older brother?’ she asked Pongsak.
‘Five in the back, two in the front.’
‘Jing reu?’
‘Four in the back, one in the front,’ Pongsak corrected himself.
‘You’ve sold three places. I’ll pay for the other two if we can leave now.’
He grinned and nodded, hustling the old man into the front seat in case she changed her mind.
Jayne slid onto the back seat next to Paul. ‘And another thing,’ she said in Thai. ‘I’ll give you fifty baht more if you don’t go over one hundred kilometres an hour.’
‘Jing reu?’ It was Pongsak’s turn to sound sceptical.
‘Jing jing,’ she said.
Pongsak laughed and turned on the radio while reversing out of his parking bay. Horn blaring, he plunged into the traffic.
Jayne shook her head.
‘What?’ Paul asked.
‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘Try me.’
Jayne saw something in his face that reminded her of her own frustration when she first arrived in Thailand and couldn’t follow what was happening.
‘I offered to pay our driver extra to keep his speed below a hundred. I didn’t think to offer an additional bonus for getting us to Khanom in one piece.’
‘He’s onto you,’ Paul whispered. ‘He’s planning a series of terrifying manoeuvres until you pay him to stop.’
She laughed because the idea was entirely plausible. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time I’d been taken for a ride.’
‘Really? You seem so…I don’t know, at home.’
The Dying Beach Page 20