by Ben Ezzell
“How’s that?” Bob looked up.
“I’d swear I just saw a fish flying though the air,” Bren raised the bottle, examining the contents carefully.
Nolan smiled but didn’t comment.
“A fish flying? Where?” Sarah looked around.
“Down there. It flew across the road,” Bren started to point but changed his motion to an open-handed gesture, indicating the paired restaurants at the eastern end of the market.
“Are flying fish eatable?” Greg craned his head, surveying the area.
“It looked like a flounder,” Bren protested. “A flying flounder?” He pushed the bottle to one side, shaking his head.
Baan Orchid, 7:00 PM
Tahm stretched out, pulling a light blanket over himself. After dark, things cooled off quickly. He would sleep for a few hours and then it would be time for him to get up and keep watch. Then – at two – it would be Saanpa’s turn and Tahm could go back to sleep until morning.
Tahm didn’t mind the night watch. It wasn’t that strenuous and he could watch TV most of the time. And he could start a new carving. He had a nice piece of mahogany, very hard burl wood… It was just waiting for the right idea.
But it was important that Tahm was there and awake. Burglars were always a problem. And, of course, someone had to let late guests in – the gates were kept locked after sundown.
He patted the photo he’d gotten from the vendor that morning. If the kamoy were to show up…
Tahm dropped off to sleep to vague dreams of most un-Buddhist violence against a shadowed figure. And equally vague thoughts of a grateful farahng lady…
Flying Fish Restaurant, Anusan Market, 7:05 PM
“For the entrée,” Nolan rose from the table, “may I recommend plah tote laht nahm prik makahm?”
“Do we have to pronounce it?” Greg asked doubtfully.
“Plah? Is that how you introduced our cook at Baan Orchid,” Sarah hesitated. “I mean, it sounds the same.”
“Very good,” Nolan nodded. “Plah means ‘fish’.”
“And her name is ‘fish’?”
“It’s a nickname,” Nolan admitted. “Actually, I don’t know her real name. Nicknames are common here. Hang around long enough and you’ll probably get one yourself. But the dish I’d like to introduce you to is a fried fish with a spicy tamarind sauce. It’s actually a gulf dish but … well, it’s done very nicely here.”
“I know I saw it this time,” Bren jumped in. “And I’d swear it was a flounder!”
“Probably a pompano,” Nolan corrected. “But, yes, you did. If you’ll join me at the Flying Fish?” he invited.
“You’re kidding, right?” Greg looked around as if he expected to find everyone else preparing to laugh at his naiveté.
Except that no one was even looking at Greg. Instead, everyone’s attentions were on the paired restaurants at the end of the market.
Greg followed their gaze and, almost as if on cue, two large fish appeared flying across the roadway separating the two buildings.
“I still don’t believe it,” Bren muttered.
“Of all the times to have my camera stolen,” Joan sounded angry – or annoyed anyway. “A picture like that … No one would believe me. I mean…” She stood and walked toward the restaurant for a better view.
She was followed quickly enough by the remainder of the group.
“On that side,” Nolan explained, indicating the building on the south, “they keep tanks of fish. This way, unless you’re a seal, you’ll never have a fresher fish dinner.”
To illustrate his words, a sizable pompano flew though the air to be neatly caught on the other side in a deftly maneuvered basket.
“I should have,” Bob chided himself, “brought my camcorder this evening.”
7:40 PM
The spicy plah tote laht nahm prik makahm was accompanied and contrasted by a relatively plain saffron rice together with a salad Nolan introduced as soop naw mai. “Shredded bamboo, chilies, lime and mint,” Nolan recounted. “You can moderate the chilies to balance flavors for American tastes but this makes an excellent contrast to the sweet tamarind sauce on the fish. And the rice,” Nolan hastened to add, seeing Tanya scooping a large helping of salad on a wedge of cabbage leaf, “can moderate the salad if you find it too spicy.”
“Nice,” Tanya spoke around her mouthful. “I like it spicy. Good sharp flavors …” Her expression changed suddenly as she hastily scooped up a spoonful of rice to follow the salad.
A Thai woman at a nearby table looked across and smiled at the farahng lady’s discomfort. “Pet mak mak, mai ka?” she inquired pleasantly.
“Gently, gently,” Jeffery suggested, helping himself to a smaller mouthful.
Somphet Reua Bar, near Baan Orchid, 8:05 PM
“You get some sleep,” the man suggested. “And we see you in Surat Thani in few days, mai karhp?”
“Kahp!” Saanpa agreed drowsily, letting himself though the gate. Too much Kloster. He would sleep for while, then he could pack and write letter in morning. Weaving unsteadily, he patted the pocket where the thick wad of 500-baht bills reposed.
Behind him, beyond the gate, a green Isuzu pickup drove away without haste.
Anusan Market, 8:10 PM
“Is any one interested in dessert? Kawng wahn?” Nolan addressed the question to Tanya first, then took in the rest of the group.
“Not me,” Bren yawned. “Long day.”
Next to him, Jeffery nodded agreement.
“Maybe a little bit,” Tanya considered. “But nothing elaborate.”
“After this?” Joan raised an eyebrow. “But I suppose I could try.”
Sarah shrugged while both the Maxwells declined with smiles.
“Hey, I want to look around,” Greg stretched. “It’s still early – barely eight.”
Dinner had been a leisurely three-hour progression with courses supplied by different vendors around the Anusan Market. Since someone from one or the other of the vendors had appeared at irregular intervals to collect emptied dishes, the table was now almost bare, holding little aside from the skeletons of three fish, a well-depleted tub of rice and very little of the spicy salad.
“Do we tip?” Bob Maxwell inquired. “And, if so, how?”
“No,” Nolan declined. “Tipping isn’t a Thai custom although the practice is common in some hotels and some of the more Westernized restaurants. Well, suppose I arrange tuk-tuks for those who want to quit for the evening. Then the rest of us can look around a bit. In the morning, we’ll visit the food markets and set up a schedule so you can try cooking Thai style.”
“Sounds good,” Bob agreed. “I hope no one will mind if I video tape some of this? Not for release, just to collect ideas and notes?”
Somewhere in Chiang Mai, 8:30 PM
Khun grumbled as he submitted to the barber’s scissors. Cutting his long hair short wasn’t appealing but, he recognized, it was necessary. And the mustache as well.
It wasn’t much of a mustache. In common with his countrymen, Khun Rutnin had little facial hair and his upper lip bore only a scattering of hairs – a tribute to a Mongolian ancestor in his lineage. Still he had nurtured those few, training and waxing them to droop on each side of his mouth in what he’d fondly – however erroneously – believed gave him a fierce appearance.
Without the mustache and with his hair trimmed short above the ears and hanging in neat bangs across the forehead, Khun hardly recognized himself in the mirror. For one, he now looked a handful of years younger. For another, the bangs hid the high forehead and the slightly receding hairline, giving his face a squatter, more rounded shape.
And the missing mustache made his mouth look fuller as well.
He passed a hand across his face, feeling exposed. Naked.
Moving his head, he couldn’t feel the weight and drag of the long hair down his back and the evening breeze felt cool on his neck.
He pulled the jacket tighter, shrugging to settle the collar
against the newly bare skin. The jacket was a change as well – a light tan showing wear and stains resisting repeated washings. It was nothing like the colorful L.A. Raiders jacket he was accustomed to.
Neither was the shirt under the jacket nor the pants. The pants were khaki, also worn, however clean. And the shirt was plain blue denim, washed many times. All of these had been bought from vendors during the past few hours. His real clothes – the good clothes – were in the rooms he shared with Baw.
As were the tooled boots. Changing boots for sandals not only left his feet feeling cool and exposed but had taken an inch off his height and changed his stance as well.
No, he decided, no one would recognize him. Not even his mother, he thought. Not that he had seen her in many years. Not that he was even sure he could recognize her.
Still, the American farahng was paying – paying well too. It was worth it, Khun Rutnin decided. And the hair and mustache could always grow back.
As for being a gardener, what was there to know? He’d been a gardener when he was younger, of course. Or a farmer, not that there was much difference.
Born in Lamphun Province, in a small village near the city of Lamphun – a city itself a tenth the size of Chiang Mai – Khun had been young when he’d left the rural life for the excitements of city life – for so he’d considered Lamphun at that time – first trading a hoe for a fishing net and skiff along the Mae Kuang River.
Later, he’d given up fishing and Lamphun for a samlor in Chiang Mai, moving from a small town to a large city. His legs covered with tattoos – charms for strength and health and virtually a badge of occupation among samlor drivers whose legs were the motive force for the bicycle-rickshaws – Khun had been ambitious, dreaming of graduation to a tuk-tuk where an engine would replace muscles.
But, Khun had found, tuk-tuks were expensive while pedaling a samlor was hard work for low pay. And, he had found, there were more agreeable ways – in the city – to make money.
Still, the tattoos remained even if the legs they covered were no longer as lean and hard-muscled as they had been once. And the calluses on his hands – and feet – had vanished at the same time his hair had grown long and luxuriant.
Now, with his hair cut short and clothed in working garb in place of his usual finery, Khun felt more like the boy who had left the Mae Kuang and Lamphun for the lights of the big city.
It was well, he decided. For a few days, he could be a gardener. A few days would be enough, then he could vanish back into the city crowds and enjoy the rewards for his labors. Yes, he thought, hair and mustache, they will grow back again.
Night Market, 8:45 PM
“What on earth is that,” Joan looked over Sarah’s shoulder. “Some kind of puzzle?”
“Soma blocks,” Sarah answered, quickly fitting the six wooden pieces together to form a single cube, three blocks across on each side.
“Missy very fast. You like?” the vendor smiled across the table.
“It’s beautiful,” she agreed. “Very nice wood. Yes, I like it.”
“For you, I make special price – three hundred baht. You like, yes?”
“Three hundred? That’s …” Sarah fumbled the blocks, spilling them across the table, in her confusion. How much was three hundred baht in dollars?
“Two fifty,” the vendor corrected. “Very special price.”
“Ten dollars,” Tanya supplied quickly. “Down from twelve.”
“Neung rawy hah sip, mai kahp?” Nolan countered – ‘one fifty, yes?’.
“Neung rawy hah sip? Took mak mak, kahp! Sawng rawy sahm-sip! Mai pang, kahp!” – ‘150? Too cheap! 230! Not expensive.’
“Pang mak, neung rawy bpaat sip, kahp!” – ‘Too expensive, 180’
“Swang rawy! Koon kamoy, kahp!” – ‘Two hundred, you are thief’
“Swang rawy, kahp! He’ll give it to you for two hundred,” Nolan added to Sarah.
Sarah blinked but produced a pair of hundred baht bills, handing them to the vendor.
“Eight dollars,” Tanya commented softly. “Good show.”
“Very good, missy,” the vendor grinned. “Good bargain. I get you new set – not used.”
“No,” Sarah reached for the blocks. “I like these.”
“Then give you new box. This one break,” the vendor demonstrated a crack in the wooden box that fitted the blocks. He reached under the table to produce a new set, allowing Sarah to put her set of blocks in the new intact wooden box before offering her a bag to carry them.
“You sound like Tahm,” Joan accused Nolan as they walked away. “Maybe I should teach you the gem business.”
“What I want to know,” Sarah asked, “is why he seemed so happy after you beat the price down? And insisted on getting me a box that wasn’t broken as well?”
“Because it’s sport,” Nolan grinned. “We both knew where the price was going. We were just having fun getting there. If you hadn’t haggled, he’d have been disappointed. He might even have had to do it for you. Didn’t you notice how he came down when you hesitated?”
“But I was just trying to figure out how much three hundred baht was. And I really wanted the blocks. Uncle Phil gave me a set like these once. But I haven’t seen them in years. He might have bought them right here.”
“He’d visited Thailand before then?”
“Here, Japan, the Philippines, Malaysia,” she agreed. “And he always brought me puzzles. When I was little, I loved puzzles. Any kind, metal link puzzles, puzzle boxes, these! I would have paid the three hundred, you know?”
9:25 PM
“I don’t believe the prices they’re asking for movie cassettes,” Tanya exclaimed. “They’ve got all of the old Gregory Peck movies on cassette and they’re practically giving them away. Daryl – my, ah, boyfriend – loves Peck.”
“I’d think twice about buying those,” Nolan smiled. “They’ll work fine with local VCRs and TVs but I’m not sure if they can be taken state-side. Not just because they’re probably bootleg but they use the PAL video standards here which are different from the U.S. which uses the NTSC standard.”
“Bootleg,” Joan nodded. “Like the clothes.”
“Does that apply to the music tapes and CDs as well?” Tanya pursued the question.
“Being bootleg? Probably but these, at least, will play on any tape or CD player.”
“Figures,” Tanya nodded. “Nice, take the tourists on something they won’t notice until they’re home, boost the economy. Still, people seem to live well here – apparently wages are cheap but so’s food and clothing – it’s only the luxury goods that are expensive. And the baht’s stable, right? Most of the time anyway – wasn’t there a problem a couple of years ago?”
“When the baht dropped to forty against the dollar?” Nolan recalled.
“Forty-three,” Tanya corrected. “Or something like that. But they came back pretty quickly, didn’t they?”
“I guess so,” Nolan agreed. “Haven’t really kept track. But, yeah, the exchange rate is usually pretty stable at 25:1.”
* * *
9:50 PM
“I really shouldn’t buy so much,” Joan lamented, “but everything is so cheap. Maybe I’ll need some more luggage, do you think?” She swirled a pants suit in a green jungle flower pattern.
At the counter, Tanya was bargaining over a silk scarf decorated with large batik butterflies while Sarah was considering a handbag.
“You might,” Nolan suggested diplomatically, “get an even better deal if you just looked tonight and then came back during the day. Then you could have Tahm to help with the packages.” Nolan was already carrying several bags, not as if they were heavy but they were obviously bulky.
“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” Joan sounded disappointed. “What would the girls say? ‘So much shopping, so little time?’ Silly, I know, but … Oh dear, where’s Greg? Have we lost him? Do you think …”
“I think,” Nolan smiled, “that he’s fine. He’s – he was �
�� in a bar downstairs. Where he is now, heaven knows.”
“Should we find him? Check on him, I mean. Just in case …”
“Joan,” Sarah interrupted. “Greg’s old enough to look after himself. And Nolan’s right, we can go shopping later. Maybe it’s time we quit for the evening?”
“Well …” Joan was obviously reluctant. Then, “Maybe you’re right,” she admitted. “If you’re sure about Greg …”
Cheroen Meuang Road, 10:00 PM
“Mai, mai kahp! Baan Orchid, Wat Faham. Leeoh sy! Tenee, kahp! Some drivers …” Nolan added but didn’t finish the thought.
“But why,” Joan questioned. “I mean, we’re not on a meter so why would he go the wrong way.”
“To negotiate a higher fare?” Tanya guessed. “A cabbie did to me that in Mexico City once.”
“Might be,” Nolan agreed. “Oh, if they try it? Just make a note of the number plate and then report it to the Tourist Authority.” He added something in a low voice the ladies couldn’t understand.
Apparently, however – from a sharp intake of breath – the driver did understand but made no reply.
“By the way,” Nolan added. “Most tuk-tuk drivers speak English, German and Japanese as well as Thai. And many of them speak several other languages as well. And most,” he concluded with emphasis, “are seu dtrohng. Honest.”
The remainder of the trip was accomplished without Nolan commenting on the route and, as they entered the compound at Baan Orchid, Mam came to the porch to greet them.
“Kun Sarah. Tohrasahp, ka!” Mam was holding her right hand with the thumb by her ear and the little finger by her mouth and gesturing with her left.
“Who?” Sarah hurried up the steps.
“Kun Stafford,” Mam held the door. “He call previous. Phone in office.”
Sarah made her way to the office where Terry handed her the phone, then left, closing the door behind him.
“Hello? Alex?” Sarah addressed the instrument, unconsciously raising her voice.
“Hello, Sarah,” the phone responded. “How are you?” The response was prompt and perfectly clear, not sounding at all like a voice from halfway around the world.